I'm fidgety and unfocused today. I don't know what it is. I'm just squirmy and scruffy and unsettled. I didn't shave most of this week, so it looks like I'm trying to grow a beard. That might be a funny thing to surprise my family with in July, when I take the boys to North Carolina.
This weekend has another soccer game for B1, and likely registering B2 for soccer in the fall. I persuaded Exene to let B1 not take a fourth season of soccer, as he could give a rat's ass about it, but B2 will be a natural for it, for sure. Exene has that Teutonic fitness mentality that makes me tired just to think of it. I imagine Hitlerian newsreels like this playing in her head when she contemplates athletics, and I try to insulate the boys from the worst of that impulse, telling B1 "It's okay if you don't want to do an activity. Don't just do it because you think you're supposed to; do it because you want to." Which, I'm sure Exene sees as me subverting her Master Plan for Die Kindern, but I'm really just wanting them to enjoy their childhoods -- I value unstructured time highly, think it's a vital component for kids. Lord knows when adulthood comes around, one finds the fuck structured out of one's life!
Anyway, I'm going to sew up the plot for the screenplay upon revision, make sure everything hits when it's supposed to, that it flows well, all that good stuff.
Beyond that, nothing planned. Weather permitting, I may take the boys biking. We'll see.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Movie: Deadgirl
So, I watched "Deadgirl" last night, part of my recent horror movie filmfest of the past few days, and this one is, by far, the most horrific of the three I just saw. Like squirm-in-your-seat horrific, and also, perhaps, the most classically constructed as a horror story (in the sense of the supernatural leading to the fall of the characters).
That said, it was certainly not a perfect movie, although it was a creative spin on the classic zombie movie narrative (and something I'd actually conceived in the 90s as a story idea, but something I never wrote, because it's just too fucking gross). I'll mention the problems I had with it first...
First, it was too long -- they needed to edit it more tightly. Fewer shots of protagonist Rickie biking around town aimlessly, less time dicking around (pun intended) in the abandoned mental institution. They could've probably trimmed a good 20 minutes off it without consequence.
Second, Rickie (played by Shiloh Fernandez -- there's a name for you) was miscast -- the actor playing him didn't at all convince me as the burnout/loser character he was supposed to be (especially when contrasted with Noah Segan's ghoulish "J.T." and Eric Podnar's dopey "Wheeler" -- those two were perfectly cast and believable in those roles). Fernandez might've come across as weird, but he just didn't fit the burnout/skater/outsider/freak-n-geek character we're supposed to believe he was playing.
Third, Rickie is far too passive of a character in the narrative -- way, way too many shots of him looking on in horror at the admittedly horrific goings-on, or scowling meaningfully at nothing, looking all Walking Wounded. Clearly he's got a lot on his mind, but the story doesn't really give him much to do -- he's perennially railroaded by his out-and-out psychopathic friend, J.T., and rather than really being active in the story, Rickie just coasts along.
I know why they did that -- they wanted Rickie to keep his hands somewhat clean, compared with the horrific hog wallow presented by J.T. and Wheeler. We're supposed to feel some level of sympathy for Rickie, who at least has a modicum of bystanderly compassion in the story, but his half-hearted and half-assed attempts at doing the right thing don't carry much resonance, and since he never really follows through, they are weak, at best. For a protagonist, he's very weak.
Especially when contrasted with J.T., who largely steals the show with his villainy. The wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, as the primary villain in the movie, J.T. rides roughshod over the story as thoroughly as he does over the other characters -- and that's not a bad thing; it's fun to watch him be disgusting and horrible in a human trainwreck kind of way. Clearly Noah Segan was having a blast playing the flat-eyed teen psycho (oh, and I looked him up -- the actor's a Libra. I figured. Librans always have those doll's eyes).
Fourth, the love interest (sorta), JoAnn (played by Candice Accola), is weakly played in the story, so whatever she's supposed to represent to Rickie is lost by the weak characterization of her, so what ultimately happens to her is lessened -- she doesn't have far to fall, because she (and his relationship to Rickie) is only very barely fleshed out. Again, it doesn't convince or persuade beyond a "Oh, sure, what the fuck?" from the audience.
The plot is what the title says it is -- a couple of high school losers find a zombie chick restrained in an abandoned asylum and make her their sex toy/slave. That's it. And it's plenty fucking horrifying, and if they'd just tweaked the script a little here and there, they'd have really nailed it, I think. It does succeed in being incredibly disturbing, and while it may on the face of it appear to be anti-woman, I think it was more accurately anti-man (or anti-teen boy, anyway) -- because the women characters in the movie (including the zombie Deadgirl) are actually sympathetic, compared with the guy characters, who are all creeps and weirdos (with the exception of ineffectual Rickie, who just manages to wince emotionally now and again, and, at least up to a point, display some modicum of decency).
A few more revisions to tighten the story up, a more sharply-written script (better dialogue and characterizations) and a better-cast Rickie would, I think, have made it a canonical horror movie. As such, it emerges as a horrific movie with a lot of dark promise.
I would advise against seeing it if you are a horror movie tourist -- if you enjoy horror movies, you'll be ready for it (and still horrified), but if you're just a tourist, it'll freak you out for sure. I will say that the gore elements of it are understated, but the implications of what's going on are damned horrific.
That said, it was certainly not a perfect movie, although it was a creative spin on the classic zombie movie narrative (and something I'd actually conceived in the 90s as a story idea, but something I never wrote, because it's just too fucking gross). I'll mention the problems I had with it first...
First, it was too long -- they needed to edit it more tightly. Fewer shots of protagonist Rickie biking around town aimlessly, less time dicking around (pun intended) in the abandoned mental institution. They could've probably trimmed a good 20 minutes off it without consequence.
Second, Rickie (played by Shiloh Fernandez -- there's a name for you) was miscast -- the actor playing him didn't at all convince me as the burnout/loser character he was supposed to be (especially when contrasted with Noah Segan's ghoulish "J.T." and Eric Podnar's dopey "Wheeler" -- those two were perfectly cast and believable in those roles). Fernandez might've come across as weird, but he just didn't fit the burnout/skater/outsider/freak-n-geek character we're supposed to believe he was playing.
Third, Rickie is far too passive of a character in the narrative -- way, way too many shots of him looking on in horror at the admittedly horrific goings-on, or scowling meaningfully at nothing, looking all Walking Wounded. Clearly he's got a lot on his mind, but the story doesn't really give him much to do -- he's perennially railroaded by his out-and-out psychopathic friend, J.T., and rather than really being active in the story, Rickie just coasts along.
I know why they did that -- they wanted Rickie to keep his hands somewhat clean, compared with the horrific hog wallow presented by J.T. and Wheeler. We're supposed to feel some level of sympathy for Rickie, who at least has a modicum of bystanderly compassion in the story, but his half-hearted and half-assed attempts at doing the right thing don't carry much resonance, and since he never really follows through, they are weak, at best. For a protagonist, he's very weak.
Especially when contrasted with J.T., who largely steals the show with his villainy. The wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, as the primary villain in the movie, J.T. rides roughshod over the story as thoroughly as he does over the other characters -- and that's not a bad thing; it's fun to watch him be disgusting and horrible in a human trainwreck kind of way. Clearly Noah Segan was having a blast playing the flat-eyed teen psycho (oh, and I looked him up -- the actor's a Libra. I figured. Librans always have those doll's eyes).
Fourth, the love interest (sorta), JoAnn (played by Candice Accola), is weakly played in the story, so whatever she's supposed to represent to Rickie is lost by the weak characterization of her, so what ultimately happens to her is lessened -- she doesn't have far to fall, because she (and his relationship to Rickie) is only very barely fleshed out. Again, it doesn't convince or persuade beyond a "Oh, sure, what the fuck?" from the audience.
The plot is what the title says it is -- a couple of high school losers find a zombie chick restrained in an abandoned asylum and make her their sex toy/slave. That's it. And it's plenty fucking horrifying, and if they'd just tweaked the script a little here and there, they'd have really nailed it, I think. It does succeed in being incredibly disturbing, and while it may on the face of it appear to be anti-woman, I think it was more accurately anti-man (or anti-teen boy, anyway) -- because the women characters in the movie (including the zombie Deadgirl) are actually sympathetic, compared with the guy characters, who are all creeps and weirdos (with the exception of ineffectual Rickie, who just manages to wince emotionally now and again, and, at least up to a point, display some modicum of decency).
A few more revisions to tighten the story up, a more sharply-written script (better dialogue and characterizations) and a better-cast Rickie would, I think, have made it a canonical horror movie. As such, it emerges as a horrific movie with a lot of dark promise.
I would advise against seeing it if you are a horror movie tourist -- if you enjoy horror movies, you'll be ready for it (and still horrified), but if you're just a tourist, it'll freak you out for sure. I will say that the gore elements of it are understated, but the implications of what's going on are damned horrific.
Today...
Well, well, well. Another April 30 is upon me. Such a fateful day. 120th day of the year, leaving us a tidy 245 days left in this year. What happened today in history, hmmm?
1789 – On the balcony of Federal Hall on Wall Street in New York City, George Washington takes the oath of office to become the first elected President of the United States.
1927 – Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford become the first celebrities to leave their footprints in concrete at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood.
1933 – Willie Nelson, American musician
1943 – World War II: Operation Mincemeat: The submarine HMS Seraph surfaces in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Spain to deposit a dead man planted with false invasion plans and dressed as a British military intelligence officer.
1945 – World War II: Fuehrerbunker: Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun commit suicide after being married for one day. Soviet soldiers raise the Victory Banner over the Reichstag building.
1954 – Jane Campion, New Zealand film director
1956 – Lars von Trier, Danish film director
1975 – Fall of Saigon (or Liberation of Saigon from the Communist perspective): Communist forces gain control of Saigon. The Vietnam War formally ends with the unconditional surrender of South Vietnamese president Duong Van Minh.
1982 – Kirsten Dunst, American actress
1789 – On the balcony of Federal Hall on Wall Street in New York City, George Washington takes the oath of office to become the first elected President of the United States.
1927 – Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford become the first celebrities to leave their footprints in concrete at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood.
1933 – Willie Nelson, American musician
1943 – World War II: Operation Mincemeat: The submarine HMS Seraph surfaces in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Spain to deposit a dead man planted with false invasion plans and dressed as a British military intelligence officer.
1945 – World War II: Fuehrerbunker: Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun commit suicide after being married for one day. Soviet soldiers raise the Victory Banner over the Reichstag building.
1954 – Jane Campion, New Zealand film director
1956 – Lars von Trier, Danish film director
1975 – Fall of Saigon (or Liberation of Saigon from the Communist perspective): Communist forces gain control of Saigon. The Vietnam War formally ends with the unconditional surrender of South Vietnamese president Duong Van Minh.
1982 – Kirsten Dunst, American actress
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Movie: The Fantastic Mr. Fox
I watched "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" at long last, and enjoyed it, almost despite it being a West Anderson movie. I say that because Anderson's made a career out of dishing out a certain type of ambiance in his works -- trying out-Salinger Salinger, is how I typically put it. Not so much with "Bottle Rocket," but from "Rushmore" onward, he ladles that kind of quirkily patrician kind of world that conjures up the Glass Family that so occupied Salinger. J.D. Salinger's taut style of writing certainly influenced me in the 90s, when I read most of his books, but to see it served up onscreen (albeit somewhat adulterated by way of Anderson) is, somehow, I don't know -- arch?
He must be a fun and/or indulgent director, as he has his usual band of actors who appear eager to work with him again and again (Tim Burton has that same quality).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spCknVcaSHg
Anyway, "...Fox" is fun and enjoyable because while you can't for a moment ignore that it's a Wes Anderson movie, the stop-motion and Roald Dahl source material for it renders it palatable and charming. For example, having George Clooney voice Mr. Fox might seem questionable, since the man is so busy being (or trying to be) Cary Grant Lite that he can't occupy any scene without derailing it -- but since it was just his voice, it lets the character of Mr. Fox come through more than it otherwise would have. Quite the opposite with Bill Murray as the Mr. Badger -- I love Bill Murray, but he kind of overwhelms his character a bit -- you can just SEE Murray in the character so much, which amuses me. Bill Murray is so Bill Murray that even as just a voice, he possesses anything he touches.
The plot of the movie pits the Foxes against three farmers, and it escalates through the course of the story (and, I think, drags a bit in the third act -- I found myself getting a bit fidgety, and being surprised that it's only 87 minutes long -- it felt a bit longer owing to that third act). But it's dryly funny and clever and cute and is a cool effort. My boys loved it and wanted to watch it again and again. I think Anderson was smart to avoid lapsing completely into self-parody with it -- the venue change let him do his thing without it appearing that he was doing his same old thing (and yet, yes, he was doing his same old thing, but I didn't care, because I enjoyed the movie a great deal). The power of stop-motion puppetry! Never, ever underestimate the power of puppets, where kids are concerned!
Oh, and I can instantly irk B1 just by imitating Mr. Fox's call-sign that he does (you can hear it at :04 in the trailer linked above). I do it and he says (in this admonishing, irritated tone) "Dadddddyy. Don't. Do. That!"
He must be a fun and/or indulgent director, as he has his usual band of actors who appear eager to work with him again and again (Tim Burton has that same quality).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spCknVcaSHg
Anyway, "...Fox" is fun and enjoyable because while you can't for a moment ignore that it's a Wes Anderson movie, the stop-motion and Roald Dahl source material for it renders it palatable and charming. For example, having George Clooney voice Mr. Fox might seem questionable, since the man is so busy being (or trying to be) Cary Grant Lite that he can't occupy any scene without derailing it -- but since it was just his voice, it lets the character of Mr. Fox come through more than it otherwise would have. Quite the opposite with Bill Murray as the Mr. Badger -- I love Bill Murray, but he kind of overwhelms his character a bit -- you can just SEE Murray in the character so much, which amuses me. Bill Murray is so Bill Murray that even as just a voice, he possesses anything he touches.
The plot of the movie pits the Foxes against three farmers, and it escalates through the course of the story (and, I think, drags a bit in the third act -- I found myself getting a bit fidgety, and being surprised that it's only 87 minutes long -- it felt a bit longer owing to that third act). But it's dryly funny and clever and cute and is a cool effort. My boys loved it and wanted to watch it again and again. I think Anderson was smart to avoid lapsing completely into self-parody with it -- the venue change let him do his thing without it appearing that he was doing his same old thing (and yet, yes, he was doing his same old thing, but I didn't care, because I enjoyed the movie a great deal). The power of stop-motion puppetry! Never, ever underestimate the power of puppets, where kids are concerned!
Oh, and I can instantly irk B1 just by imitating Mr. Fox's call-sign that he does (you can hear it at :04 in the trailer linked above). I do it and he says (in this admonishing, irritated tone) "Dadddddyy. Don't. Do. That!"
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Fauxthenticity
I was pleased to see "fauxthenticity" published. Another word of mine added to the dyslexicon!
Movie: Drag Me To Hell
I watched "Drag Me To Hell" last night (no, not a documentary of my life of the past ten years, although the title does make me think of that) -- and it was fun. I watched the unrated version. I mean, it's GROSS, but it's so over-the-top that you can only laugh at it. Sam Raimi seems to channel "Evil Dead 2" in a big way with it, that kind of madcap, hyperkinetic horror (or is it simply his directing style?) that is Raimi's trademark.
It's quite a contrast from "The House of the Devil," which was far more serious, and was more quietly and earnestly horrific (and with a much-smaller budget), whereas DMTH was just having a good time delivering the shock and awe kind of stuff.
As intended, I sympathized with the cutie Alison Lohman in the role of Christine Brown, hapless loan officer at a bank who denies an old Gypsy woman a loan and gets cursed for her troubles. Things go from bad to worse for her, leading to all sorts of embarrassments and woes.
The diminutive Lohman carried off her role very well, and she literally goes through hell in the course of the movie, which adheres to classic horror tropes throughout. Her boyfriend, Apple pitchman-turned-guy-trying-to-be-a-regular actor, Jason Hill, does his part, although he's always distracting to me. I always think "Hey, Apple Guy!" I'm sure he hates that, but that's what he gets.
Anyway, the movie has some genuinely horrific/gross moments in it, but plenty of laughably scary-dumb moments in it, too (not laughing at per se, so much as laughing with -- I mean, when a would-be sacrificial goat gets demon-possessed and starts spouting demon-speak, what can you do BUT laugh?) Clearly, while wanting to deliver a straightforward horror romp, Raimi and company didn't take themselves TOO seriously. When the little kitten's in the scene, you know what's going to happen -- indeed, I said "Here, Kitty Kitty" almost the same moment Lohman's character did.
I knew where it was all going, but enjoyed the ride, all the same. It's curious for me to contrast this movie with the other one (it's kind of like contrasting the apocalyptic movies "2012" and "The Road" -- while ostensibly dealing with the same subject matter, one is lighthearted and gleeful, the latter is as serious as a heart attack).
Gettin' down and dirty with Alison Lohman.
Which one did I like better? I don't know. This one was more FUN, if that makes any sense, although in terms of delivering creepiness and a generally horrific vibe, "The House..." may have delivered more out-and-out chills.
It's quite a contrast from "The House of the Devil," which was far more serious, and was more quietly and earnestly horrific (and with a much-smaller budget), whereas DMTH was just having a good time delivering the shock and awe kind of stuff.
As intended, I sympathized with the cutie Alison Lohman in the role of Christine Brown, hapless loan officer at a bank who denies an old Gypsy woman a loan and gets cursed for her troubles. Things go from bad to worse for her, leading to all sorts of embarrassments and woes.
The diminutive Lohman carried off her role very well, and she literally goes through hell in the course of the movie, which adheres to classic horror tropes throughout. Her boyfriend, Apple pitchman-turned-guy-trying-to-be-a-regular actor, Jason Hill, does his part, although he's always distracting to me. I always think "Hey, Apple Guy!" I'm sure he hates that, but that's what he gets.
Anyway, the movie has some genuinely horrific/gross moments in it, but plenty of laughably scary-dumb moments in it, too (not laughing at per se, so much as laughing with -- I mean, when a would-be sacrificial goat gets demon-possessed and starts spouting demon-speak, what can you do BUT laugh?) Clearly, while wanting to deliver a straightforward horror romp, Raimi and company didn't take themselves TOO seriously. When the little kitten's in the scene, you know what's going to happen -- indeed, I said "Here, Kitty Kitty" almost the same moment Lohman's character did.
I knew where it was all going, but enjoyed the ride, all the same. It's curious for me to contrast this movie with the other one (it's kind of like contrasting the apocalyptic movies "2012" and "The Road" -- while ostensibly dealing with the same subject matter, one is lighthearted and gleeful, the latter is as serious as a heart attack).
Gettin' down and dirty with Alison Lohman.Which one did I like better? I don't know. This one was more FUN, if that makes any sense, although in terms of delivering creepiness and a generally horrific vibe, "The House..." may have delivered more out-and-out chills.
Drink: Fair & Balanced
I had a dream last night where I invented a cocktail called a "Fair & Balanced" -- in mockery of Fox News and company. In the dream, I was talking with some mainstream journalists, and we were mocking how crappy Fox News was, and I came up with the Fair & Balanced as a cocktail in mockery of them, which the journalists began guzzling. While I'm pleased that my twisted brain comes up with drink recipes in its sleep, unfortunately, I can't remember the whole recipe!
Fair & Balanced
Purple Kool-Aid
Seven-Up
1 shot of vodka
1 shot of Chambord
3 dashes of bitters
Served in a Collins glass, over plenty of ice.
The whole point of it was that it was an unfair and unbalanced cocktail, but I can't remember what made it so.
Fair & Balanced
Purple Kool-Aid
Seven-Up
1 shot of vodka
1 shot of Chambord
3 dashes of bitters
Served in a Collins glass, over plenty of ice.
The whole point of it was that it was an unfair and unbalanced cocktail, but I can't remember what made it so.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Movie: The House of the Devil
I watched "The House of the Devil" the other night, and liked it well enough. An indie horror flick, very self-consciously crafted to appear to have been shot in, say, the mid-80s, with the simplest of touches -- characters' hairstyles, the mom jeans, the rotary dial telephones, the big Walkman -- and it looks very much like it could've been a movie of that time.
It delivered some good atmosphere and some startling moments, although I felt that too much time was spent creating the mood and when things get out of hand, they get out of hand almost too quickly for it to really work properly, in terms of pacing, like going from too little to too much all at once.
Also, the meta-factoid at the beginning basically throws any proper suspense out the window -- not having context for what was happening might've made it work better on the face of things.
As an exercise in cinematic style (e.g., simulating an 80s horror movie), they definitely hit all the marks properly. As a horror movie itself, I don't know if it'll qualify as a classic of the genre.
I don't know if this was deliberate on the part of the director or not, but there's a lot of eating in the movie -- it kind of draws attention to itself, like business for the characters to do. It becomes a little distracting, all the nibbling that goes on. Maybe they wanted the characters to have more to do than just, say, smoke (which some of them do, too). Not sure. But it was a little distracting for me.
Also, the overall conceit of the story was less than I'd hoped for, and the payoff didn't quite deliver for me. Like they ended at both a good and a bad point, saying more by showing less, but also kind of copping out (just because of the rushed elements of horror in it making the payoff feel perhaps a bit contrived).
Greta Gerwig (one of my indie film crushes, right up there with Parker Posey) is in it, in a small role as the protagonist's friend.
It delivered some good atmosphere and some startling moments, although I felt that too much time was spent creating the mood and when things get out of hand, they get out of hand almost too quickly for it to really work properly, in terms of pacing, like going from too little to too much all at once.
Also, the meta-factoid at the beginning basically throws any proper suspense out the window -- not having context for what was happening might've made it work better on the face of things.
As an exercise in cinematic style (e.g., simulating an 80s horror movie), they definitely hit all the marks properly. As a horror movie itself, I don't know if it'll qualify as a classic of the genre.
I don't know if this was deliberate on the part of the director or not, but there's a lot of eating in the movie -- it kind of draws attention to itself, like business for the characters to do. It becomes a little distracting, all the nibbling that goes on. Maybe they wanted the characters to have more to do than just, say, smoke (which some of them do, too). Not sure. But it was a little distracting for me.
Also, the overall conceit of the story was less than I'd hoped for, and the payoff didn't quite deliver for me. Like they ended at both a good and a bad point, saying more by showing less, but also kind of copping out (just because of the rushed elements of horror in it making the payoff feel perhaps a bit contrived).
Greta Gerwig (one of my indie film crushes, right up there with Parker Posey) is in it, in a small role as the protagonist's friend.
Cynical, Cyclical
Sometimes B1 will ask me about something, and I'm torn between giving him the officially accepted(tm) notion of something, and my own cynical take on it. On one hand, I think he shouldn't be burdened with cynicism as a child; but, on the other hand, the alternative is, what, being naive and taking it on the chin?
My life experience to date has made me pretty cynical, I guess. Which is weird, because I still believe in love, in romantic notions -- it's just that I see so little of it around me day-to-day that I think I perhaps adopted cynicism as a kind of armor against the world. It's ironic to me how cynicism attained a negative connotation, and when it did. It walked hand in hand with the advent of industrialism and modernity. Before then, the classic (and accurate) concept of the Cynics was retained. What changed in the world in the 19th century to lead to a negative view of the Cynics?
It's almost like how "conspiracy theorist" evolved as a catch-all term to invalidate a contrary position on something. Like someone can dismiss you by saying "Oh, you're just so cynical" -- without actually addressing what you're talking or thinking about.
Saying something like "It's not what you know, it's who you know" gets you branded as a cynic, even though, in practice, more often than not, it's fucking true.
Anyway, B1 is so sweet, he has this conception of how the world works, and when things don't go his way, he's very reflective about it in a sweet and innocent way -- he reads the best in people (something, sadly, I don't do -- I've been told often enough that I read the worst in people) -- and when people fail him, he tries to figure it out in a kind and rational way, whereas my (ooh!) cynical impulse is to blow it off as a typical result of how people behave toward one another.
For now, I just let him form his own conclusions about things without seasoning them with my cynicism -- for now, B1 can detect my sarcasm rather well and will say "You're just being sarcastic, Daddy." He doesn't yet know that I'm damned cynical, too -- and that I don't think that's a bad thing, either.
There is the way the world works, and the way the world should work, and those ways seldom cross -- and worse, people often fail to acknowledge or admit that this is how the world is actually working. I see that and feel a good deal of pathos.
It's not an easy path to be an open-hearted cynic, let me tell you! My heart isn't hardened by the world, although it should be, given various things I've encountered in my day. I stay young at heart, even while my cynical instincts are always saying "See? I toldja so, Stooopid."
My life experience to date has made me pretty cynical, I guess. Which is weird, because I still believe in love, in romantic notions -- it's just that I see so little of it around me day-to-day that I think I perhaps adopted cynicism as a kind of armor against the world. It's ironic to me how cynicism attained a negative connotation, and when it did. It walked hand in hand with the advent of industrialism and modernity. Before then, the classic (and accurate) concept of the Cynics was retained. What changed in the world in the 19th century to lead to a negative view of the Cynics?
It's almost like how "conspiracy theorist" evolved as a catch-all term to invalidate a contrary position on something. Like someone can dismiss you by saying "Oh, you're just so cynical" -- without actually addressing what you're talking or thinking about.
Saying something like "It's not what you know, it's who you know" gets you branded as a cynic, even though, in practice, more often than not, it's fucking true.
Anyway, B1 is so sweet, he has this conception of how the world works, and when things don't go his way, he's very reflective about it in a sweet and innocent way -- he reads the best in people (something, sadly, I don't do -- I've been told often enough that I read the worst in people) -- and when people fail him, he tries to figure it out in a kind and rational way, whereas my (ooh!) cynical impulse is to blow it off as a typical result of how people behave toward one another.
For now, I just let him form his own conclusions about things without seasoning them with my cynicism -- for now, B1 can detect my sarcasm rather well and will say "You're just being sarcastic, Daddy." He doesn't yet know that I'm damned cynical, too -- and that I don't think that's a bad thing, either.
There is the way the world works, and the way the world should work, and those ways seldom cross -- and worse, people often fail to acknowledge or admit that this is how the world is actually working. I see that and feel a good deal of pathos.
It's not an easy path to be an open-hearted cynic, let me tell you! My heart isn't hardened by the world, although it should be, given various things I've encountered in my day. I stay young at heart, even while my cynical instincts are always saying "See? I toldja so, Stooopid."
Upchuck Truck
I get parent points for last night, for quick thinking while on Emergency Puke Patrol. B1 was a little pukey last night from what I think is the flu (the real flu, mind you, not "stomach flu"). All the coughing I think makes his tummy sensitive. Anyway, he's on the top bunk, and I'm on the bottom bunk, and I'm hearing him coughing (I'd given him cough medicine earlier, but it hadn't kicked in, yet), and I hear him kind of gag, and I'm like "Are you gonna puke, Buddy?" and he's like "Yeah." But I can tell that he's not gonna make it down the bunk in time to reach the bathroom (and Exene's in there showering, anyway), so I snag a plastic dump truck that's in reach and I hand it up in time for B1 to hurl in it. He fills it up nicely, and I'm like "Whew." (because I know B1 would likely just lean over the side and puke over it in a pinch). So, I tell him "Hold the truck; keep it level and steady." and then I ran and got some paper towels and a mixing bowl and he swabbed his face with the towels and I swapped out the dump truck for a mixing bowl. Then I cleaned out the dump truck in the kitchen sink, grateful that the truck had a solid bed in the back, therefore leakproof. Whew! I cleaned it out and sterilized it and left it on the kitchen floor.
The next morning, B2 came in and said "Heyyy, what's my dump truck doing in here?" and I said "Oh, I think the pixies must've taken it for a spin." and He looked around suspiciously, said "Pixies?"
I do feel like writing the company and thanking them for the quality toy dump truck, which proved very good at handling the pukeload of an 8-year-old.
The next morning, B2 came in and said "Heyyy, what's my dump truck doing in here?" and I said "Oh, I think the pixies must've taken it for a spin." and He looked around suspiciously, said "Pixies?"
I do feel like writing the company and thanking them for the quality toy dump truck, which proved very good at handling the pukeload of an 8-year-old.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Transcribed
Alright, so I finished transcribing the screenplay. It's currently 99 pages long, and I've got over a month until the deadline, so I'm well ahead of schedule. Next up, printing it out and reading through it, and then tightening it up and revising as required, then blocking it out and judging the pacing, all of that kind of stuff. Then I'll let some folks read it, see if they like it, try to incorporate their feedback in as timely a fashion as I can, and get it submitted before the June 3 deadline.
I really, really hope I win! Need some good luck for a change!
I really, really hope I win! Need some good luck for a change!
Where's the fun?
I was amused the other day, getting some cold medicines from CVS for B1 -- in addition to the receipt, I got an additional slip saying "Preventing Teen Cough Medicine Abuse." and I snickered at this, which had the clerk (a 20-something) chuckling, too. I said "Can't abuse that cough syrup, now can we?" and he said "I know, right? Where's the fun in that?"
Boys will be...boys?
I'm home with the boys today -- B1 had a fever last night, a chest something-or-other that had him coughing a fair piece, so I'm keeping an eye on him and taking care of him and his brother today. B2 had his usual preschool stuff to attend to.
I also did the dishes, took out the trash, and am in the process of cleaning the boys' room and looking for new jobbage.
While in the midst of this, I hear squabbling in the other room, B1 crying out, and I see B2 astride his brother, B1 on his stomach, with B2 brandishing the ball peen hammer we use to drive the tent stakes when camping. I always keep it high above B2, out of his reach -- but Exene had put all the camping gear in a box on the floor, where B2 could reach it, and he used it to go after his big brother. Lordy. I managed to intercede before B2 could get more than one clumsy blow on his brother's shoulder, but lordy, lordy.
B2 is so much more of a scrapper than his sweet big brother. B1 is much bigger than his baby brother, but he's also so much kinder and sweeter -- it doesn't occur to him to take a rubber mallet and use it as a weapon.
I'm sure households with lots of girls in them have their own issues, but somehow, a household of boys makes a ball peen hammer bludgeoning likelier, no? I'm just glad I got the hammer from B2 before it really became Hammer Time.
Sheesh. I made B2 take a time out and then come out and give his brother a hug and a kiss and apologize for hitting him.
AND, I put that hammer back where I had it before, hell and gone from B2's diminutive-yet-deadly clutches!
I should also add that B2 loves and idolizes his big brother. He just adores him. But he is also much more of a rough-houser than his big brother, and that comes up from time to time.
I also did the dishes, took out the trash, and am in the process of cleaning the boys' room and looking for new jobbage.
While in the midst of this, I hear squabbling in the other room, B1 crying out, and I see B2 astride his brother, B1 on his stomach, with B2 brandishing the ball peen hammer we use to drive the tent stakes when camping. I always keep it high above B2, out of his reach -- but Exene had put all the camping gear in a box on the floor, where B2 could reach it, and he used it to go after his big brother. Lordy. I managed to intercede before B2 could get more than one clumsy blow on his brother's shoulder, but lordy, lordy.
B2 is so much more of a scrapper than his sweet big brother. B1 is much bigger than his baby brother, but he's also so much kinder and sweeter -- it doesn't occur to him to take a rubber mallet and use it as a weapon.
I'm sure households with lots of girls in them have their own issues, but somehow, a household of boys makes a ball peen hammer bludgeoning likelier, no? I'm just glad I got the hammer from B2 before it really became Hammer Time.
Sheesh. I made B2 take a time out and then come out and give his brother a hug and a kiss and apologize for hitting him.
AND, I put that hammer back where I had it before, hell and gone from B2's diminutive-yet-deadly clutches!
I should also add that B2 loves and idolizes his big brother. He just adores him. But he is also much more of a rough-houser than his big brother, and that comes up from time to time.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
There and Back Again
So, managed to squeak out around five hours of fun time with the Boys yesterday, before the storms came. Exene and I pitched the tent and they played, and meantime, the weather got worse and worse. We managed to join in on the dinner -- where B1 got go mad/upset at Exene trying to make him eat some of the cookout food (chicken, in this case) that he puked up what he had eaten, which annoyed her immensely. Nice going!
As ever, I crossed paths with the dads -- in this case, one of whom (a cop, no less) comes up and shakes my hand, says "I can't remember your name" and I gave it, and then he keeps a grip on my hand and starts walking me over to the mess tent -- of course, I'm no fan of being manhandled (literally) so I pry my hand loose of his (prompting him to go "Whoa, whoa, you can't get away that easily!") and he introduced me to one of the other dads and told me to wrangle up some kids to fill the collapsible water containers they had (there were a half-dozen of those high-capacity ones). First off, if you want me to do something, just fucking ask me -- don't try that bullshit faux-friendly ballbusting power-gaming crap on me with your control-grip policeman's handshake shit. That's just plain rude.
I pour one of the water containers to fill one of the hot water pots they're using for the dishwater. Then, I look at those water containers, and having worked with'em before on my own, I know that they get damned heavy, and because they're collapsible plastic, they're very awkward. Looking around at the kids (all of whom are still eating), I think two things: 1) these containers are likely too awkward and big for the kids to handle -- they're little kids, for fuck's sake, and 2) they're all busy eating, so why don't I just handle it, myself?
I take two at a time and walk'em over to the water pump, and fill them up. They're damned heavy, like 30-40 lbs. full. In no time at all, I have'em hauled up and back. The cook-dad I met saw me hauling the last one back, and he carped "You're SUPPOSED to have the BOYS do that!"
Now I'm really fucking annoyed, thinking "Forgive me for being efficient about it and doing it myself, and letting the kids eat. Is this some sacred function or something? Will the kids become juvenile delinquents now because I got the water, instead of ordering some kids I don't even know around and having them do it?"
So, I'm peeved and I leave the mess tent, having played Water Bearer long enough, and getting carped at for my efforts. Around that time was when B1 puked, although I wasn't there to see it.
Anyway, the weather turned sour (really bad, as I knew it would, judging from that radar), and we took everything down (but not before getting soaked -- I drove the Sienna up and had the Boys wait in there while we took it all down). We got completely soaked, and were glad we didn't try to ride it out, as the wind was really strong.
The boys seemed to have fun in the time they had, although B1 was peevish about the storm cutting short the camping, groused about that a bit. Still, we got home ahead of the storm (just ahead of it -- it kicked up about 10 minutes after we got home), and that was that.
B2 took one of the play-tents we have and set it up in the living room, promptly fell asleep in there. B1 played with a flashlight I'd gotten him at Target.
Onward and upward. I'm taking advantage of still having the rental van to make a grocery store run today.
As ever, I crossed paths with the dads -- in this case, one of whom (a cop, no less) comes up and shakes my hand, says "I can't remember your name" and I gave it, and then he keeps a grip on my hand and starts walking me over to the mess tent -- of course, I'm no fan of being manhandled (literally) so I pry my hand loose of his (prompting him to go "Whoa, whoa, you can't get away that easily!") and he introduced me to one of the other dads and told me to wrangle up some kids to fill the collapsible water containers they had (there were a half-dozen of those high-capacity ones). First off, if you want me to do something, just fucking ask me -- don't try that bullshit faux-friendly ballbusting power-gaming crap on me with your control-grip policeman's handshake shit. That's just plain rude.
I pour one of the water containers to fill one of the hot water pots they're using for the dishwater. Then, I look at those water containers, and having worked with'em before on my own, I know that they get damned heavy, and because they're collapsible plastic, they're very awkward. Looking around at the kids (all of whom are still eating), I think two things: 1) these containers are likely too awkward and big for the kids to handle -- they're little kids, for fuck's sake, and 2) they're all busy eating, so why don't I just handle it, myself?
I take two at a time and walk'em over to the water pump, and fill them up. They're damned heavy, like 30-40 lbs. full. In no time at all, I have'em hauled up and back. The cook-dad I met saw me hauling the last one back, and he carped "You're SUPPOSED to have the BOYS do that!"
Now I'm really fucking annoyed, thinking "Forgive me for being efficient about it and doing it myself, and letting the kids eat. Is this some sacred function or something? Will the kids become juvenile delinquents now because I got the water, instead of ordering some kids I don't even know around and having them do it?"
So, I'm peeved and I leave the mess tent, having played Water Bearer long enough, and getting carped at for my efforts. Around that time was when B1 puked, although I wasn't there to see it.
Anyway, the weather turned sour (really bad, as I knew it would, judging from that radar), and we took everything down (but not before getting soaked -- I drove the Sienna up and had the Boys wait in there while we took it all down). We got completely soaked, and were glad we didn't try to ride it out, as the wind was really strong.
The boys seemed to have fun in the time they had, although B1 was peevish about the storm cutting short the camping, groused about that a bit. Still, we got home ahead of the storm (just ahead of it -- it kicked up about 10 minutes after we got home), and that was that.
B2 took one of the play-tents we have and set it up in the living room, promptly fell asleep in there. B1 played with a flashlight I'd gotten him at Target.
Onward and upward. I'm taking advantage of still having the rental van to make a grocery store run today.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Where in the hell am I?
Can you find me on this map?
Now, imagine me driving the boys to a campsite (#$%# Cub Scouts), in a Toyota Sienna, and setting up camp for tonight and tomorrow. Nothing like thunderstorm camping! Woo hoo! Provided no tornadoes come and sweep us up into the stratosphere, I figure we can take refuge in the Sienna, if we have to. The storms are perfectly timed to make a camping trip appear feasible, without actually being so.
Now, imagine me driving the boys to a campsite (#$%# Cub Scouts), in a Toyota Sienna, and setting up camp for tonight and tomorrow. Nothing like thunderstorm camping! Woo hoo! Provided no tornadoes come and sweep us up into the stratosphere, I figure we can take refuge in the Sienna, if we have to. The storms are perfectly timed to make a camping trip appear feasible, without actually being so.
Friday, April 23, 2010
A Close Shave
Before I got home, B2 got into the medicine cabinet and snagged one of Exene's Venus shavers, and shaved his chin -- he now was three cut-lines on his chinny chin-chin.
I put all of my razors high out of the boys' reach. Apparently not Exene.
*shaking head*
I put all of my razors high out of the boys' reach. Apparently not Exene.
*shaking head*
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Two Words
Want to know how to piss me off using only two words? Want proof of a godless, pointless, meaningless, senseless universe?
Diablo Cody.
Everything about Diablo Cody pisses me off. Literally everything about her. I'm getting too pissed off to even iterate all the ways in which she pisses me off, so I'm just stopping right now, because I'm breaking into a pissed-off, red-faced Dave face-sweat right now.
Diablo Cody.Everything about Diablo Cody pisses me off. Literally everything about her. I'm getting too pissed off to even iterate all the ways in which she pisses me off, so I'm just stopping right now, because I'm breaking into a pissed-off, red-faced Dave face-sweat right now.
Sunny Delight
So, I've transcribed 93 pages of the screenplay, am nearly done with that part of it, although the work's not yet done (thankfully, plenty of time until deadline). I think it'll probably be 90 pages long when I'm finally done with it, upon revision and tightening it up. Since one page = one minute with screenplays, that's more than enough time, as I see it. I'll do what I can to tighten it all up, once it's all transcribed.
I'm drafting a lot of notes for the next book, while I'm also currently working on one (which is still nearly all written longhand, unfortunately -- I haven't yet gotten a Netbook).
Very sunny today, although chilly, too. Brrr! Yesterday was downright cold, but I think that's just the vagaries of weather here.
B1 got his report card yesterday, and did very well -- 6 A's, 4 B's. His teacher had nothing but good to say of him. He's such a sweet, good boy. Genuinely decent. We jaywalked the other day, and he said "We shouldn't jaywalk, Daddy." and I said "I know, but the bank's right across the street from here, it's not a busy street. Normally, I'd never do it, but we're RIGHT THERE." and he said "I know, but I just don't like breaking the law." Oh, my. My Lawful Good son. Such a sweetheart. I wonder how that'll stack up against the world at large, how that'll play out. I hope he never loses that sweet heart of his.
B2 is a wilder child -- he's sweet, but he's wild and wicked, too. He likes stirring the pot. He absolutely loves chaos -- you can see it. I'm a fan of chaos, myself, up to a point, but B2 is a maelstrom when he really gets going. He's also incredibly scrappy -- he seems to have gotten my fighting instincts, only wilder. Good lord, yes. I try to gently offer some moral guidance for B2, but he's still pretty resistant to it, when it suits him to be. Although he is keen to join in on things, and I can sometimes hoodwink him into being responsible by going to work on something and his desire to join in brings him to me where if I asked him to do something, he'd just blow me off.
Oh, and this should've been the theme music for my bus ride this morning.
I'm drafting a lot of notes for the next book, while I'm also currently working on one (which is still nearly all written longhand, unfortunately -- I haven't yet gotten a Netbook).
Very sunny today, although chilly, too. Brrr! Yesterday was downright cold, but I think that's just the vagaries of weather here.
B1 got his report card yesterday, and did very well -- 6 A's, 4 B's. His teacher had nothing but good to say of him. He's such a sweet, good boy. Genuinely decent. We jaywalked the other day, and he said "We shouldn't jaywalk, Daddy." and I said "I know, but the bank's right across the street from here, it's not a busy street. Normally, I'd never do it, but we're RIGHT THERE." and he said "I know, but I just don't like breaking the law." Oh, my. My Lawful Good son. Such a sweetheart. I wonder how that'll stack up against the world at large, how that'll play out. I hope he never loses that sweet heart of his.
B2 is a wilder child -- he's sweet, but he's wild and wicked, too. He likes stirring the pot. He absolutely loves chaos -- you can see it. I'm a fan of chaos, myself, up to a point, but B2 is a maelstrom when he really gets going. He's also incredibly scrappy -- he seems to have gotten my fighting instincts, only wilder. Good lord, yes. I try to gently offer some moral guidance for B2, but he's still pretty resistant to it, when it suits him to be. Although he is keen to join in on things, and I can sometimes hoodwink him into being responsible by going to work on something and his desire to join in brings him to me where if I asked him to do something, he'd just blow me off.
Oh, and this should've been the theme music for my bus ride this morning.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Holy Shit
One thing I notice a lot on Facebook is how people who likely self-identify as "Christian" are so often hard-hearted little souls who snarl angrily about the poor and the needy. It galls me that me, the resident atheist, apparently has a bigger heart than these supposed Christians. And when I see it over and over again, this stew of hatred and anger and malice and lack of empathy (to say nothing of sympathy) from folks, it bothers me more than a little. The jester in me wants to comment to these people "What Would Jesus Do?" when they go on one of their little tears, although that would likely just be "Oh, Dave's being a smartass" kind of thing, even though I'm really calling them out a little.
I'm busy teaching my sons to be kind and compassionate (with B1, it's hardly something I even need to do -- he's kind and sweet and sensitive and already has more moral sense than most of the adults I know), and I see these other people who purportedly embrace Christianity spouting hate and venom, and I think "My poor sons are gonna be sharing the world with these hard-hearted people's spawn."
It is haunting and frustrating and makes me sad. I'm kinder-hearted than most people probably actually think -- behind my sarcastic, snarky, cynical exterior, I'm fundamentally kind. I routinely give to the poor and the needy, and I'm reflexively empathic to the suffering of others. In a purely philosophical, Judeo-Christian ethical sense, I am more Christian than most of the Christians I know.
My least-Christian quality is that I don't hurt those who don't deserve to be hurt -- sorry, but if smacked in the face (literally or figuratively), I will smack back -- I'm far too Celtic to truly turn the other cheek, although I'm far more forgiving than I ought to be, and I never start anything, but I'm sure to finish it, if provoked -- I don't believe in initiation of force, but I do believe in self-defense, and that applies in a variety of settings, whether physical, emotional, mental, social, or spiritual. I do believe in Live and Let Live as an atheistic detente with the world around me. I won't hurt you if you don't hurt me, but Tit for Tat definitely is part of my character.
Anyway, it just bothers me to see hate and vitriol flung by people who've clearly been drinking the Christianist Kool-Aid and spew that kind of partisan venom at the poor and the weak and the needy. C'mon, people. It's very, very American to do that, really -- like to think that Christianity is more "God helps those who help themselves" than "Love one another." Or that Christ was somehow this oily entrepreneur, this venture capitalist for the soul, instead of a genuine spiritual radical who embraced the weak against the dictates of the strong and the powerful. Yet this obvious theological point seems lost on so many people.
As I've long said, I think Christianity came to America to die -- Europe bled itself dry of religiosity in countless wars, and our young country gleefully embraced (and distorted) Christian theology to its own end. Clearly, the nearly communist doctrines of actual Christianity are entirely un-American, so I wonder just what kind of Christianity those folks are embracing, precisely -- a "Christianity" where the strong kick the weak in the teeth, where the rich are free to enjoy the fruits of others' labors with impunity, where the powerful ride roughshod over the poor, where the bold inherit the Earth (standing on the backs of the meek, mind you).
The hostility people felt toward the health care reform is only one symptom of this spiritual sickness -- that reform was very, very mild (and, shhh, very conservative and pro-business) -- but those venom-spewers (good "Christians" one and all, for sure) got seething mad about it. And I looked at it and said "It's giving health care options for people who didn't have them. If Jesus saw that, He'd approve -- if anything, He'd say it didn't go nearly far enough to help the helpless." But noooooo, they lost their minds over people getting health care!
It doesn't bode well for this century, truly, that these cockeyed crusaders are busy taking swords to whetstones to "save this country" when, in truth, they are going to destroy it. And under the banner of "Christian values." Holy SHIT, people. The reactionaries a century ago realized that religiosity was the perfect shield for them to hide behind, and they surely are. We are seeing their foot soldiers marching under that banner of moral certitude and righteousness, while pursuing an agenda of anger, fear, and hatred. Yeah, good things will come of that, Lord knows.
I'm busy teaching my sons to be kind and compassionate (with B1, it's hardly something I even need to do -- he's kind and sweet and sensitive and already has more moral sense than most of the adults I know), and I see these other people who purportedly embrace Christianity spouting hate and venom, and I think "My poor sons are gonna be sharing the world with these hard-hearted people's spawn."
It is haunting and frustrating and makes me sad. I'm kinder-hearted than most people probably actually think -- behind my sarcastic, snarky, cynical exterior, I'm fundamentally kind. I routinely give to the poor and the needy, and I'm reflexively empathic to the suffering of others. In a purely philosophical, Judeo-Christian ethical sense, I am more Christian than most of the Christians I know.
My least-Christian quality is that I don't hurt those who don't deserve to be hurt -- sorry, but if smacked in the face (literally or figuratively), I will smack back -- I'm far too Celtic to truly turn the other cheek, although I'm far more forgiving than I ought to be, and I never start anything, but I'm sure to finish it, if provoked -- I don't believe in initiation of force, but I do believe in self-defense, and that applies in a variety of settings, whether physical, emotional, mental, social, or spiritual. I do believe in Live and Let Live as an atheistic detente with the world around me. I won't hurt you if you don't hurt me, but Tit for Tat definitely is part of my character.
Anyway, it just bothers me to see hate and vitriol flung by people who've clearly been drinking the Christianist Kool-Aid and spew that kind of partisan venom at the poor and the weak and the needy. C'mon, people. It's very, very American to do that, really -- like to think that Christianity is more "God helps those who help themselves" than "Love one another." Or that Christ was somehow this oily entrepreneur, this venture capitalist for the soul, instead of a genuine spiritual radical who embraced the weak against the dictates of the strong and the powerful. Yet this obvious theological point seems lost on so many people.
As I've long said, I think Christianity came to America to die -- Europe bled itself dry of religiosity in countless wars, and our young country gleefully embraced (and distorted) Christian theology to its own end. Clearly, the nearly communist doctrines of actual Christianity are entirely un-American, so I wonder just what kind of Christianity those folks are embracing, precisely -- a "Christianity" where the strong kick the weak in the teeth, where the rich are free to enjoy the fruits of others' labors with impunity, where the powerful ride roughshod over the poor, where the bold inherit the Earth (standing on the backs of the meek, mind you).
The hostility people felt toward the health care reform is only one symptom of this spiritual sickness -- that reform was very, very mild (and, shhh, very conservative and pro-business) -- but those venom-spewers (good "Christians" one and all, for sure) got seething mad about it. And I looked at it and said "It's giving health care options for people who didn't have them. If Jesus saw that, He'd approve -- if anything, He'd say it didn't go nearly far enough to help the helpless." But noooooo, they lost their minds over people getting health care!
It doesn't bode well for this century, truly, that these cockeyed crusaders are busy taking swords to whetstones to "save this country" when, in truth, they are going to destroy it. And under the banner of "Christian values." Holy SHIT, people. The reactionaries a century ago realized that religiosity was the perfect shield for them to hide behind, and they surely are. We are seeing their foot soldiers marching under that banner of moral certitude and righteousness, while pursuing an agenda of anger, fear, and hatred. Yeah, good things will come of that, Lord knows.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Public Service Announcement
Q: Do you know what all of these actresses have in common?
Winona Ryder.
Neve Campbell.
Selma Blair.
Katie Holmes.
Natalie Portman.
Camilla Belle.
A: If you answered "they're all brunettes!" You'd be WRONG! That is not what they all have in common! Rather, the answer is: They all suck -- they're non-acting actresses! "Hacktresses," if you will! All of them are distractingly boring and wooden in any role they play in any movie they star in. They are a flock of albatrosses sure to sink any film they're in, if directors aren't careful. I imagine if all of them were put in one movie (I don't know, like "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants III: Dude, Where's My Pants?" there might be some rift in space-time, killing us all with boredom).
Seriously, start a drinking game if you want, and any time
Even in the above stills, you can see the doe-eyed inertness they represent.
Winona Ryder.
Neve Campbell.
Selma Blair.
Katie Holmes.
Natalie Portman.
Camilla Belle.A: If you answered "they're all brunettes!" You'd be WRONG! That is not what they all have in common! Rather, the answer is: They all suck -- they're non-acting actresses! "Hacktresses," if you will! All of them are distractingly boring and wooden in any role they play in any movie they star in. They are a flock of albatrosses sure to sink any film they're in, if directors aren't careful. I imagine if all of them were put in one movie (I don't know, like "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants III: Dude, Where's My Pants?" there might be some rift in space-time, killing us all with boredom).
Seriously, start a drinking game if you want, and any time
- You CANNOT guess what emotion they're trying to portray in a scene, take a drink.
- You catch them attempting to act, too, take a drink.
- They unconvincingly try to portray some occupation or lifestyle in a scene, take a drink.
Even in the above stills, you can see the doe-eyed inertness they represent.
What's more?
I have nothing worthwhile to share today. It's been sunny-but-cool lately. The birthday weekend blew, nothing fancy. I just played with the boys, mostly, did a little transcribing. I'm trying to get the various writing projects done, but need to carve out more time for them. And I really need to find a job in the Loop. I'm sick to death of Hyde Park; I miss working downtown.
I really don't want to do freelance editorial work. Urk. This weekend, B1 has a camping outing with the Cub Scouts. I have to remember to pack cold-weather gear aplenty, because I'm sure it'll get frickin' cold! I nearly froze during last year's spring camp-out (shivering at the memory -- seriously, it was the coldest I've ever been, I think). I also have to rent a Zipcar or the like to get out to the campsite. While I don't miss the pain in the assery of owning a car in the city, there is a bit of PITA in renting, too.
I need to start making lists, just to get things all done. It's so easy to get distracted.
I really don't want to do freelance editorial work. Urk. This weekend, B1 has a camping outing with the Cub Scouts. I have to remember to pack cold-weather gear aplenty, because I'm sure it'll get frickin' cold! I nearly froze during last year's spring camp-out (shivering at the memory -- seriously, it was the coldest I've ever been, I think). I also have to rent a Zipcar or the like to get out to the campsite. While I don't miss the pain in the assery of owning a car in the city, there is a bit of PITA in renting, too.
I need to start making lists, just to get things all done. It's so easy to get distracted.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Flicks
I got the "Justice League" movie (direct-to-DVD) and was pleasantly surprised by it -- much of the Bruce Timm-directed production team was involved with it, despite the different animators, and the result was very solid. My boys LOVE the movie, and I've watched it a couple of times, think it was fun, well-done. Not treading new ground, storywise, but it was marvelously well-executed and fun. A lot of in-jokes for comic book fanboys and -girls, but it was a compelling work, and I look forward to seeing what else Bruce Timm and company turn out. They have making good animated superhero stuff down pat!
"Push," an ostensibly SF paranormal thriller (involving superhumans) had some arresting images and at least a theoretically usable premise, but it didn't fully cohere the way it needed to -- the whole didn't equal the sum of its parts, and one of the characters (played inertly by Camilla Belle, who appears to have taken the Katie Holmes School of Acting to heart) is a big drag on the overall story. It could have been a good thriller, but I think it got out from under the creators of it, and didn't fully deliver. I think my favorite sequences involved the Screamers/Bleeders, who had a sonic scream attack...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwaiD8ZVYOU
Although the precognitive Watchers were also interesting. Surprisingly, Dakota Fanning did a good job in her role as one of the Watchers (although she was distractingly hunchy -- is that just her being "in character" or does she always have such rotten posture?) She's kind of a pint-sized Kate Hudson, and her relationship with lead character "Nick" (played by Chris Evans) was more convincing that the cobbled-together love interest Evans was supposed to have with Camilla Belle's wooden character (who reminded me of Selma Blair's "Why Is She In This Movie?" role in HELLBOY).
"Coraline" is the latest Neil Gaiman triumph -- and I say that as a bad thing -- I'm not a fan of Neil Gaiman's work. He's just too British for me, too affected, too something. Some people love his work, his dark fairyland, gothic-infused mentality -- the same folks who worship Tim Burton worship Neil Gaiman as their Tolstoy. But it doesn't quite ring true for me -- his work doesn't reach me, and I can't exactly say why. Something about his writing style, his sensibility, something. The technical achievement of the movie outweighs the larger themes of it, in my view -- a movie that's fun to watch but which doesn't particularly deliver the goods. I just kind of watched it, enjoyed it after a fashion (despite the constant, cloying British eccentricity routinely demonstrated by the supposedly American characters in it).
"Push," an ostensibly SF paranormal thriller (involving superhumans) had some arresting images and at least a theoretically usable premise, but it didn't fully cohere the way it needed to -- the whole didn't equal the sum of its parts, and one of the characters (played inertly by Camilla Belle, who appears to have taken the Katie Holmes School of Acting to heart) is a big drag on the overall story. It could have been a good thriller, but I think it got out from under the creators of it, and didn't fully deliver. I think my favorite sequences involved the Screamers/Bleeders, who had a sonic scream attack...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwaiD8ZVYOU
Although the precognitive Watchers were also interesting. Surprisingly, Dakota Fanning did a good job in her role as one of the Watchers (although she was distractingly hunchy -- is that just her being "in character" or does she always have such rotten posture?) She's kind of a pint-sized Kate Hudson, and her relationship with lead character "Nick" (played by Chris Evans) was more convincing that the cobbled-together love interest Evans was supposed to have with Camilla Belle's wooden character (who reminded me of Selma Blair's "Why Is She In This Movie?" role in HELLBOY).
"Coraline" is the latest Neil Gaiman triumph -- and I say that as a bad thing -- I'm not a fan of Neil Gaiman's work. He's just too British for me, too affected, too something. Some people love his work, his dark fairyland, gothic-infused mentality -- the same folks who worship Tim Burton worship Neil Gaiman as their Tolstoy. But it doesn't quite ring true for me -- his work doesn't reach me, and I can't exactly say why. Something about his writing style, his sensibility, something. The technical achievement of the movie outweighs the larger themes of it, in my view -- a movie that's fun to watch but which doesn't particularly deliver the goods. I just kind of watched it, enjoyed it after a fashion (despite the constant, cloying British eccentricity routinely demonstrated by the supposedly American characters in it).
Movies
Over the weekend, I watched (on DVD), "Justice League: A Crisis on Two Earths," "Push," and "Coraline." I didn't get around to catching "Kick-Ass" as of yet. I'll offer my comments on the above movies in a few. Gonna make pancakes for the boys this morning.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Day of Cosmic Comedy
Today's my birthday!
According to "The Secret Language of Birthdays," today is The Day of Cosmic Comedy, which is actually pretty appropriate, for those who know me. I laugh early, and I laugh often, I laugh with, and I laugh at. I can get very nearly anybody to laugh (except for supreme assholes, fussbudgets, and sourpusses, who get annoyed at my sense of humor). The name of this day amuses me, too, because I often joke about how the Cosmos is having a laugh with me.
Some famous birthday fellow travelers: Charlie Chaplin, Peter Ustinov, Henry Mancini, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Ellen Barkin, Herbie Mann.
According to "The Secret Language of Birthdays," today is The Day of Cosmic Comedy, which is actually pretty appropriate, for those who know me. I laugh early, and I laugh often, I laugh with, and I laugh at. I can get very nearly anybody to laugh (except for supreme assholes, fussbudgets, and sourpusses, who get annoyed at my sense of humor). The name of this day amuses me, too, because I often joke about how the Cosmos is having a laugh with me.
Some famous birthday fellow travelers: Charlie Chaplin, Peter Ustinov, Henry Mancini, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Ellen Barkin, Herbie Mann.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Holding Back the Years
This is the song I was alluding to the other day -- the original "Holding Back the Years" by the Frantic Elevators (who?) -- the punk band Simply Red singer Mike Hucknall was in before attaining Blue-Eyed Soul superstardom with his syrupy remake...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-L8hlgkGmo
I love this original. It is beautiful and forlorn and wistful, and has more than a trace of a Bowie vibe to it. It's funny to me, because I've mocked the Simply Red tune for almost as long as I've paid attention to music (as symptomatic of what, exactly? I don't know what -- Spandau Ballet's "True" conjures up almost the same kind of loathing in me -- is it sentimentality? Faux-new romanticism? I don't know), but the original is a very impressive song.
It is striking to me, just how a slightly different arrangement can lead to such a rich reward, how a slight change can create such monumental improvements in something. Of course, Hucknall ladled on the soulful treacle on this beautifully barren original and parlayed into a massive hit for him, but the original is amazing.
So, I put this song up as the last tune of my 30s, to show how the same song can yield such amazing results (and improvements) with just a little tweaking. It'll be that way with my life from now on. I don't regret my past -- so much of what makes me who I am comes from that past, but I'd be lying if I didn't think that while I experienced great things in my 30s (largely centered around fatherhood and my two wonderful sons, and also finally, truly getting serious about my writing), I feel that my life has only just begun. It's a cliché, the whole "life begins at 40" idea, but maybe there's some truth to it.
A chapter of my youth is closing, and a chapter in my adulthood is beginning. I've felt some amazing, life-changing things in the past decade, and feel that, for the first time in my life, I'm being truly who I am, for better or worse! Onward toward 40. I face it without regret or fear or sorrow. I'm hopeful and I'm happy.
Anyway, enjoy the tune. I know I sure did.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-L8hlgkGmo
I love this original. It is beautiful and forlorn and wistful, and has more than a trace of a Bowie vibe to it. It's funny to me, because I've mocked the Simply Red tune for almost as long as I've paid attention to music (as symptomatic of what, exactly? I don't know what -- Spandau Ballet's "True" conjures up almost the same kind of loathing in me -- is it sentimentality? Faux-new romanticism? I don't know), but the original is a very impressive song.
It is striking to me, just how a slightly different arrangement can lead to such a rich reward, how a slight change can create such monumental improvements in something. Of course, Hucknall ladled on the soulful treacle on this beautifully barren original and parlayed into a massive hit for him, but the original is amazing.
So, I put this song up as the last tune of my 30s, to show how the same song can yield such amazing results (and improvements) with just a little tweaking. It'll be that way with my life from now on. I don't regret my past -- so much of what makes me who I am comes from that past, but I'd be lying if I didn't think that while I experienced great things in my 30s (largely centered around fatherhood and my two wonderful sons, and also finally, truly getting serious about my writing), I feel that my life has only just begun. It's a cliché, the whole "life begins at 40" idea, but maybe there's some truth to it.
A chapter of my youth is closing, and a chapter in my adulthood is beginning. I've felt some amazing, life-changing things in the past decade, and feel that, for the first time in my life, I'm being truly who I am, for better or worse! Onward toward 40. I face it without regret or fear or sorrow. I'm hopeful and I'm happy.
Anyway, enjoy the tune. I know I sure did.
Meteorology and Public Anomie
Apparently a meteor shot over the Midwest last night, roughly around the time I went to bed. I missed it, but the pix of it over Madison, WI looked impressive...
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/36559622/ns/technology_and_science-space/
I'm kinda peevish that I missed it. I was pretty tired, though, and guess I conked when this sucker flew over! I think meteors are maybe good omens, contrasted with comets, which are, historically, seen as bad omens. So, there you go.
Today's my last day of being a 30-something! Woo hoo! I thought of that at the Mission of Burma show Saturday, like "Wow, this is my last show as a 30-something." (I think Guided By Voices in 2001 was my first show as a 30-something).
Tomorrow, I'm taking a day off of work, and going to get my hair cut, gonna take care of the boys, gonna get groceries, gonna make myself a birthday cake (DIY! DIY!) and will catch "Kick-Ass" and maybe go out for a round of drinks in the evening. Nothing fancy. Low-key, compared with my 39th birthday celebration bash at the tiki bar last year, but for me, that seems right -- like the last 30-something birthday should have more weight than the first 40-something birthday, I dunno. Just feels intuitively right.
This weekend, I'm taking B1 to his soccer game Saturday (with B2 in tow), and am going to finish transcribing the screenplay (and then the odious task of noting the plot and ensuring that the plot points flow smoothly, all of that -- screenwriting leaves you no wiggle room on that -- every plot point must matter, so I need to map that all out and get it right. I may tape it to the wall or something, so I can see it all in one place -- index cards, that kinda thing. My boys'll love that, I'm sure, and'll start taping things to the walls. I just know it. Oh, and I'll get the boys' and my bikes spruced up and ready for biking season. I'm looking forward to that.
I think I may represent a kind of retrograde conception of manhood to the younger set. It's kind of funny with me, at work. I'm a strongly progressive soul, and am definitely more of a libertine than many of the people I work with (although I think maybe they don't realize it, because I'm "old") -- but it's funny, too. Most of the people I work with on a peer-to-peer basis are 20-somethings, not Gen Xers, and I think I'm very different from them. Like socially, and normatively, they speak a different language than I do. I think I'm harder-edged, more cynical, more sarcastic than they are. They are more pack-oriented, less comfortable going it alone. It's kind of weird. It reminds me of how, say, a Brat Packer or a Mod might've seemed to a group of hippies -- like retro and strange. I think that's the case.
I think the advent of texting and other technological means of corresponding has adversely impacted communication -- the younger folks are less adroit conversationalists -- less to say, and less interesting things to say. It's kind of curious to observe in action. Easily distractable, short attention spans, not much patience, and other things that I think result from changes in the way people communicate. Not only do I not really talk to them; I kind of find myself not wanting to, either. And it's not even anything personal -- it's just a kind of odd emptiness in human interactions I see that wasn't quite there before. Maybe X was the last conversational generation -- the last generation where you actually had to talk to people around you, versus relying on texting and other media to do the talking for you.
It's not necessarily a value judgment -- it's just a reflection on how things have changed. And I think conceptions of masculinity have changed, too. I think perhaps in the 90s, classic conceptions of masculinity were subverted (I think unintentionally), and many guys went "emo" because appearing too strongly masculine was perhaps seen as threatening. It's funny, because I'm not a macho guy by any means -- I'm quietly masculine, strongly sexual, but not overbearing in that regard -- but, compared with the 20-something guys I work with, I'm like a bull (haha, or a woolly ram, perhaps), snorting and stomping. At some point in our culture, being masculine was somehow seen as a bad thing. Being very alert and socially aware, I'm conscious of that, not wanting to stomp on coworkers' toes. Maybe it's part of being a Big Guy(tm) -- like there is an implicit threat in being a Big Buy that can appear threatening to people in general, I'm not sure. But I feel like where it never came up with my Gen X peers, I kind of see that vibe with the Gen Y people I work with. Being a strong individual in a pack-oriented culture, too, might be part of it.
Maybe it's because of the gradual outing of gay culture in the 90s and the rise of Emo or something, younger guys weren't really left with any workable model of manhood to put to use, and so they either stay permaboys, or else just kind of flounder. Like I notice in the parlance, the 20-something women habitually refer to guys as "boys" and themselves as "girls" -- there is almost a pejorative connotation with "man" and "woman" in language these days. Like a self-consciousness, where the women are girls and the men are boys -- or maybe it's simply a side effect of an infantilized culture where nobody really has to grow up.
I'm not entirely sure. It's just something I've observed. Almost none of the 20-somethings I work with are in long-term relationships, almost none of them have had kids -- while they claim to want a proper relationship, the idea of parenting seems horrifying and alien to them, the idea of a relationship seems to strike them as too much work for too little payoff, quite beyond their expectations of life. It's a curious thing to observe, from my vantage point of a Gen X parent of two who's getting divorced, surrounded by Gen Y people who likely haven't even given a stray thought to even marrying anybody, let alone raising kids or divorcing somebody.
How is a future built in a world like that, full of alienated people who just randomly bounce off one another like pinballs? Where seemingly obvious ideas like "conversation" and "dating" and "relationship" and even "love" seem quaint and unfamiliar and alien and perhaps even threatening? In a bizarre way, it feels like the final triumph of the consumerist culture, to the final detriment of mankind as a social animal. I just wonder where these people will be in another five years, what they will do, and what that'll mean for the larger culture.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/36559622/ns/technology_and_science-space/
I'm kinda peevish that I missed it. I was pretty tired, though, and guess I conked when this sucker flew over! I think meteors are maybe good omens, contrasted with comets, which are, historically, seen as bad omens. So, there you go.
Today's my last day of being a 30-something! Woo hoo! I thought of that at the Mission of Burma show Saturday, like "Wow, this is my last show as a 30-something." (I think Guided By Voices in 2001 was my first show as a 30-something).
Tomorrow, I'm taking a day off of work, and going to get my hair cut, gonna take care of the boys, gonna get groceries, gonna make myself a birthday cake (DIY! DIY!) and will catch "Kick-Ass" and maybe go out for a round of drinks in the evening. Nothing fancy. Low-key, compared with my 39th birthday celebration bash at the tiki bar last year, but for me, that seems right -- like the last 30-something birthday should have more weight than the first 40-something birthday, I dunno. Just feels intuitively right.
This weekend, I'm taking B1 to his soccer game Saturday (with B2 in tow), and am going to finish transcribing the screenplay (and then the odious task of noting the plot and ensuring that the plot points flow smoothly, all of that -- screenwriting leaves you no wiggle room on that -- every plot point must matter, so I need to map that all out and get it right. I may tape it to the wall or something, so I can see it all in one place -- index cards, that kinda thing. My boys'll love that, I'm sure, and'll start taping things to the walls. I just know it. Oh, and I'll get the boys' and my bikes spruced up and ready for biking season. I'm looking forward to that.
I think I may represent a kind of retrograde conception of manhood to the younger set. It's kind of funny with me, at work. I'm a strongly progressive soul, and am definitely more of a libertine than many of the people I work with (although I think maybe they don't realize it, because I'm "old") -- but it's funny, too. Most of the people I work with on a peer-to-peer basis are 20-somethings, not Gen Xers, and I think I'm very different from them. Like socially, and normatively, they speak a different language than I do. I think I'm harder-edged, more cynical, more sarcastic than they are. They are more pack-oriented, less comfortable going it alone. It's kind of weird. It reminds me of how, say, a Brat Packer or a Mod might've seemed to a group of hippies -- like retro and strange. I think that's the case.
I think the advent of texting and other technological means of corresponding has adversely impacted communication -- the younger folks are less adroit conversationalists -- less to say, and less interesting things to say. It's kind of curious to observe in action. Easily distractable, short attention spans, not much patience, and other things that I think result from changes in the way people communicate. Not only do I not really talk to them; I kind of find myself not wanting to, either. And it's not even anything personal -- it's just a kind of odd emptiness in human interactions I see that wasn't quite there before. Maybe X was the last conversational generation -- the last generation where you actually had to talk to people around you, versus relying on texting and other media to do the talking for you.
It's not necessarily a value judgment -- it's just a reflection on how things have changed. And I think conceptions of masculinity have changed, too. I think perhaps in the 90s, classic conceptions of masculinity were subverted (I think unintentionally), and many guys went "emo" because appearing too strongly masculine was perhaps seen as threatening. It's funny, because I'm not a macho guy by any means -- I'm quietly masculine, strongly sexual, but not overbearing in that regard -- but, compared with the 20-something guys I work with, I'm like a bull (haha, or a woolly ram, perhaps), snorting and stomping. At some point in our culture, being masculine was somehow seen as a bad thing. Being very alert and socially aware, I'm conscious of that, not wanting to stomp on coworkers' toes. Maybe it's part of being a Big Guy(tm) -- like there is an implicit threat in being a Big Buy that can appear threatening to people in general, I'm not sure. But I feel like where it never came up with my Gen X peers, I kind of see that vibe with the Gen Y people I work with. Being a strong individual in a pack-oriented culture, too, might be part of it.
Maybe it's because of the gradual outing of gay culture in the 90s and the rise of Emo or something, younger guys weren't really left with any workable model of manhood to put to use, and so they either stay permaboys, or else just kind of flounder. Like I notice in the parlance, the 20-something women habitually refer to guys as "boys" and themselves as "girls" -- there is almost a pejorative connotation with "man" and "woman" in language these days. Like a self-consciousness, where the women are girls and the men are boys -- or maybe it's simply a side effect of an infantilized culture where nobody really has to grow up.
I'm not entirely sure. It's just something I've observed. Almost none of the 20-somethings I work with are in long-term relationships, almost none of them have had kids -- while they claim to want a proper relationship, the idea of parenting seems horrifying and alien to them, the idea of a relationship seems to strike them as too much work for too little payoff, quite beyond their expectations of life. It's a curious thing to observe, from my vantage point of a Gen X parent of two who's getting divorced, surrounded by Gen Y people who likely haven't even given a stray thought to even marrying anybody, let alone raising kids or divorcing somebody.
How is a future built in a world like that, full of alienated people who just randomly bounce off one another like pinballs? Where seemingly obvious ideas like "conversation" and "dating" and "relationship" and even "love" seem quaint and unfamiliar and alien and perhaps even threatening? In a bizarre way, it feels like the final triumph of the consumerist culture, to the final detriment of mankind as a social animal. I just wonder where these people will be in another five years, what they will do, and what that'll mean for the larger culture.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Speaking of Punk
There's a song I'm going to post on my birthday (Friday) that just seems so right. It's ironic for me, because it just shows how powerful a slightly different arrangement can be -- a different chord here or there (I lack the language to really explain it, it's all intuitive, but is so different, so much better). It's a wonderful tune, one that I had historically maligned -- not the version I stumbled into (which kills), but the better-known one (which I still loathe). Just funny how much power a song can have, if done slightly differently. I'm chomping at the bit to post it, but I'm waiting until Friday. It's hard to be patient.
Like, OMG!
This should be a law of pop cultural physics, it holds so true: if somebody says how "punk rock" something is (or, worse, "punk rawk") -- that person is a poseur (and in this day and age, far and away from Punk's unmarked grave, it's even more poseurish to be a poseur that way, like to even feel obligated to observe how "punk rock" something is).
Every time I've seen somebody marvel at something (or someone) and say "Oh, X is SO PUNK ROCK." That person who says it is invariably the most scenesterish, hipsterish poser type. They just are. I've observed it a number of times in the long span of years -- the tendency to observe how "punk rock" something was came about really in the mid-90s; before then, stuff was either good or it sucked -- no punk worth their safety pins would even make that observation, because you'd just know intuitively. There wouldn't be the need to narrate it, couch it, and otherwise claim it like that for some kind of unearned legitimacy. I remember working with a coworker who once exclaimed (without irony, for once, as he was a consummate hipster) "I'm punk rock! I pogoed to Superchunk!" That alone is worth a cockpunch, just on general principles.
There is a Zenlike art to it, to the intuitive knowledge of it and the anarchic spirit of it, and the people who try to lay claim to that are wusses in sheep's clothing. Lead, follow, or get out of the fucking way.
It matters because that fauxthenticity (yeah, another of my words) percolates far beyond Punk's long-dead corpse, and into the realm of proper art.
In other news, I'm very disappointed that The Urban Dictionary didn't accept "Daffodildo" as a new word. Wusses. They would have, back in the day. God, I hope they didn't purge "Cuntquistador" from their dictionary. Whew. No, they didn't. That's one of my greatest additions to the English language (along with "Errorgasm," "Gliberal," "Crapdusting," "Chickchismo" [apparently a UD Word of the day in '06], "Driveshaft," and "Vaginocity," to name just a few -- I have many more in there).
Every time I've seen somebody marvel at something (or someone) and say "Oh, X is SO PUNK ROCK." That person who says it is invariably the most scenesterish, hipsterish poser type. They just are. I've observed it a number of times in the long span of years -- the tendency to observe how "punk rock" something was came about really in the mid-90s; before then, stuff was either good or it sucked -- no punk worth their safety pins would even make that observation, because you'd just know intuitively. There wouldn't be the need to narrate it, couch it, and otherwise claim it like that for some kind of unearned legitimacy. I remember working with a coworker who once exclaimed (without irony, for once, as he was a consummate hipster) "I'm punk rock! I pogoed to Superchunk!" That alone is worth a cockpunch, just on general principles.
There is a Zenlike art to it, to the intuitive knowledge of it and the anarchic spirit of it, and the people who try to lay claim to that are wusses in sheep's clothing. Lead, follow, or get out of the fucking way.
It matters because that fauxthenticity (yeah, another of my words) percolates far beyond Punk's long-dead corpse, and into the realm of proper art.
In other news, I'm very disappointed that The Urban Dictionary didn't accept "Daffodildo" as a new word. Wusses. They would have, back in the day. God, I hope they didn't purge "Cuntquistador" from their dictionary. Whew. No, they didn't. That's one of my greatest additions to the English language (along with "Errorgasm," "Gliberal," "Crapdusting," "Chickchismo" [apparently a UD Word of the day in '06], "Driveshaft," and "Vaginocity," to name just a few -- I have many more in there).
Hemingway on Hyenas
Saw this blurb in a SLATE piece on hyenas, and it made me snicker. Ernest Hemingway on hyenas...
"Hermaphroditic, self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad yowler, camp-follower, stinking, foul with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves …"I love it, especially "potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept" -- bahaha! I imagine him drunkenly penning that, trying to get just the right flow. The above feels like a grumbly trail of invective -- it makes me want to describe various people I know in pithy sequences of description like that.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
You Know My Name
My boys aptly demonstrated last night just how much like me they are -- they were bickering through song, after I'd tucked them in, with Chris Cornell's "You Know My Name" as the melody. I sometimes will talk to them in song, like to get a point across -- our own lil' opera! So, it was something like this (I wish I could remember all of their lyrics, because they were so funny, them trying to spot-weld the words to the melody)...
[B1] pushed me, and he knocked me downThen B1 piped up...
I was so mad at him
I only did it because [B2] punched meeeeThey were going back and forth with their bicker-lyrics, which were slaying me. I let them go awhile, before joining in...
Nobody should be punching or pushing the otherAnd so on.
you guys are brothers, you love each other
Monday, April 12, 2010
Donuts
Oh, and I forgot to mention -- Exene credited the donuts she ate that morning (ones I'd bought, which she'd nicked, although they were intended for the boys) as crucial in her "triumph" yesterday. Which calls to mind THIS in my head...
This and that
I was busy with the boys all day yesterday, took them to the Museum of Science and Industry (MSI), which they loved. I have to credit the MSI on expanding itself and remodeling itself over the years. It's a far greater place than it was in the 90s. The boys had a blast.
I didn't get to finish my transcription, as I was busy with the kids. I'll try to do that this week, as i want to have it done before the weekend. Although I'm not entirely sure if I'll have ironed out the whole structure by then, on revision. We'll see.
Exene placed first in her division on a 5K she ran, and was exceptionally proud of that, repeatedly recounting at length the minutiae of the race. While I think running is a certainly valid form of fitness, hearing about it at length could be used to torture inmates at a secret prison. Just play that on a continuous loop and they'll break. Okay. You ran. You won in your division. Yay. Good job. I look forward to not having to hear about running again -- one of the bonus fruits of having my own place soon enough. Cure for cancer found? Great artwork created? Masterpiece written? Music composed? No? No? No? No? Look me up when you've done that -- and even then, don't explain the process -- just let me see the handiwork, the accomplishment, the achievement -- and let it create something that wasn't there before, let it in some way make the world a more interesting place. Pretty please? It's all I ask.
When I finish a book, I don't do a play-by-play on it; I just finish it, and move onto the next project. There is satisfaction in the creation of something new, but I don't cluck over it. And even with something that I've won, it's incidental to the process for me. I can imagine me winning the Nobel Prize for Literature (hey, I said IMAGINE) and Exene saying "I won a medal, too -- first place for my age division in a 5K!" with no-doubt superior fervor. Maybe I'm just not enough of a diva. Maybe I need to climb a rampart and toot my own horn, for all to hear?
If I'm able to write fiction full-time, I'll be happy with that. If I'm able to create something beautiful and wonderful, I'll be very pleased with that -- but I won't rest on my laurels, won't pat myself on the back. I'm more process-driven than that. "Look what I did!" is not my style. With me, it's more "Did you enjoy what I created?"
I didn't get to finish my transcription, as I was busy with the kids. I'll try to do that this week, as i want to have it done before the weekend. Although I'm not entirely sure if I'll have ironed out the whole structure by then, on revision. We'll see.
Exene placed first in her division on a 5K she ran, and was exceptionally proud of that, repeatedly recounting at length the minutiae of the race. While I think running is a certainly valid form of fitness, hearing about it at length could be used to torture inmates at a secret prison. Just play that on a continuous loop and they'll break. Okay. You ran. You won in your division. Yay. Good job. I look forward to not having to hear about running again -- one of the bonus fruits of having my own place soon enough. Cure for cancer found? Great artwork created? Masterpiece written? Music composed? No? No? No? No? Look me up when you've done that -- and even then, don't explain the process -- just let me see the handiwork, the accomplishment, the achievement -- and let it create something that wasn't there before, let it in some way make the world a more interesting place. Pretty please? It's all I ask.
When I finish a book, I don't do a play-by-play on it; I just finish it, and move onto the next project. There is satisfaction in the creation of something new, but I don't cluck over it. And even with something that I've won, it's incidental to the process for me. I can imagine me winning the Nobel Prize for Literature (hey, I said IMAGINE) and Exene saying "I won a medal, too -- first place for my age division in a 5K!" with no-doubt superior fervor. Maybe I'm just not enough of a diva. Maybe I need to climb a rampart and toot my own horn, for all to hear?
If I'm able to write fiction full-time, I'll be happy with that. If I'm able to create something beautiful and wonderful, I'll be very pleased with that -- but I won't rest on my laurels, won't pat myself on the back. I'm more process-driven than that. "Look what I did!" is not my style. With me, it's more "Did you enjoy what I created?"
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Great Show
Mission of Burma rocked Double Door last night. They did a great job. Probably the best small-venue show I've seen (or at least tied with Buzzcocks, who I also saw at Double Door). They brought it and played amazingly well. Definitely no sense of phoning it in, like with Dinosaur Jr last year (at the Vic). I'm actually sore from all the jumping around I did.
The audience was of mixed aged, since M.O.B.'s early fan base is comfortably middle-aged, now. Lots of indie music geeks (*koff*) and their coolio nerd-girlfriends. But M.O.B. really brought it and had the room thumping. They did two encores, including "Red" (one of my all-time faves of theirs), and finishing with "That's When I Reach for My Revolver" (which Moby covered many years ago).
Red (circa 1983)
Money well-spent. Very glad I caught the show. It was pretty amazing, all the activity out in Wicker Park, at the main intersection -- since the gentrification of that area, it's become quite the dating mecca -- Meatmarket Central! All the gals in their Saturday Night duds, all the tool guys trying to look sharp. It makes me want to bring a camera down there and capture it sometime -- the volume of humanity on the prowl is too amusing.
The audience was of mixed aged, since M.O.B.'s early fan base is comfortably middle-aged, now. Lots of indie music geeks (*koff*) and their coolio nerd-girlfriends. But M.O.B. really brought it and had the room thumping. They did two encores, including "Red" (one of my all-time faves of theirs), and finishing with "That's When I Reach for My Revolver" (which Moby covered many years ago).
Red (circa 1983)
Money well-spent. Very glad I caught the show. It was pretty amazing, all the activity out in Wicker Park, at the main intersection -- since the gentrification of that area, it's become quite the dating mecca -- Meatmarket Central! All the gals in their Saturday Night duds, all the tool guys trying to look sharp. It makes me want to bring a camera down there and capture it sometime -- the volume of humanity on the prowl is too amusing.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Mission Statement
I'm going out tonight, going to catch Mission of Burma at Double Door. Some people complain about Double Door, but I think it's a great little venue for seeing bands. I saw the Buzzcocks there a few years ago, and that was a fantastic show.
I'm flying solo, which is often very common for me when I go see one of the rare bands I'm interested in hearing live. I don't bother to ask anybody if they'd like to go, because they've either not heard of the band in question or likely wouldn't like the music if they heard it. And because when I go on my own, I can just focus on the band's music, sans distraction, and soak up their sound. Not that I'd object to taking a date to see a band, but for me, the consummate audiophile, I'm very much there to watch the performance, to hear the performer play, to watch them.
That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate
Anyway, that's what's on my plate tonight. I'm so glad there's the smoking ban in Chicago -- it makes seeing bands so much more pleasant; you don't have to detox after seeing a show.
Dead Pool
Mission of Burma is one of the few active bands out there I'm at all curious about seeing, since so much of their sound was about sound, itself -- like their approach to music is very, I dunno, elemental. It's hard to describe, exactly. They were always in their own space, soundwise -- hard to classify or pigeonhole. There's their songs themselves, and how they present them, sonically -- which sounds maybe stupid, I'm not sure.
It's kind of like when you watch a movie (or when I do, anyway) and pay attention to not just the movie, but how it's shot, the decisions the director makes in the shooting of it. With Mission of Burma, there are the songs themselves, and there is their approach to tackling the "problem" of their songs, themselves -- the aesthetic choices they make. I respect them as musicians, for carving out their own space.
Einstein's Day
They're often a band I listen to when I'm brooding, or driving around, thinking. I look forward to standing there in the little crowd, nursing a beer, just awash in sound, at almost point-blank range.
I'm flying solo, which is often very common for me when I go see one of the rare bands I'm interested in hearing live. I don't bother to ask anybody if they'd like to go, because they've either not heard of the band in question or likely wouldn't like the music if they heard it. And because when I go on my own, I can just focus on the band's music, sans distraction, and soak up their sound. Not that I'd object to taking a date to see a band, but for me, the consummate audiophile, I'm very much there to watch the performance, to hear the performer play, to watch them.
That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate
Anyway, that's what's on my plate tonight. I'm so glad there's the smoking ban in Chicago -- it makes seeing bands so much more pleasant; you don't have to detox after seeing a show.
Dead Pool
Mission of Burma is one of the few active bands out there I'm at all curious about seeing, since so much of their sound was about sound, itself -- like their approach to music is very, I dunno, elemental. It's hard to describe, exactly. They were always in their own space, soundwise -- hard to classify or pigeonhole. There's their songs themselves, and how they present them, sonically -- which sounds maybe stupid, I'm not sure.
It's kind of like when you watch a movie (or when I do, anyway) and pay attention to not just the movie, but how it's shot, the decisions the director makes in the shooting of it. With Mission of Burma, there are the songs themselves, and there is their approach to tackling the "problem" of their songs, themselves -- the aesthetic choices they make. I respect them as musicians, for carving out their own space.
Einstein's Day
They're often a band I listen to when I'm brooding, or driving around, thinking. I look forward to standing there in the little crowd, nursing a beer, just awash in sound, at almost point-blank range.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Open Minds and Open Hearts
Tucking the boys in, I told B1 next Friday was my birthday, and he had a bit of angst about it. I told him that the key to staying young forever was to keep an open mind and an open heart -- an open mind would keep him free, and an open heart would let him feel the wonder of life wherever he went, and those things would keep him young, and that the key to really savoring life was to pay attention to the world around him, to notice the details, and take delight in them. He took my hand and held it against his face and closed his eyes. My sweet lil' guy. His brother was already asleep the moment I tucked him in. I kissed their foreheads and that was that. Good night, lil' angels.
'Burnin'
I set up a haircut appointment for next Friday (e.g., my birthday), and not a moment too soon! Again, I keep getting acknowledgments from hipsters, who (I gather) appreciate my werewolfesque sideburns at the moment. Like I saw Hipster Moe on the bus yesterday, on the commute home, and he nodded a greeting before putting on his oversized shades. He's wearing his Chuckies, has his ratty plaid shirt, his scruffy jacket, his messenger bag, his stubble, his big shades, and is reading some esoteric book. And there's me, with my messenger bag, my scruffy face and burns, my pewter loafers, my tan jacket with the plaid interior, busy writing longhand in one of my many notebooks. Hipster Moe appeared particularly interested in that -- probably the combination of me writing and writing longhand fit his conception of what one ought to be doing. Not sure. Anyway, I'll keep the 'burns after the haircut, but they'll be less Wolverine-looking, more restrained.
Nothing else jumped out at me yesterday, except that spring is in full flower in Chicagoland, which means women wearing their spring fashions -- the flowers are blooming in the city! There really are two schools of dress in Chicago in spring, among the womenfolk: 1) the Flowers, who defiantly go full-on spring in their attire; and 2) the Diehards, who hew to the more restrained hues of winter, as if they are unsure whether spring is actually here (they can be identified by shades of black, grey, and brown in their attire, usually in jeans). I can't honestly fault either group -- they're both right. Spring IS here, and, it being Chicago, it also means a good snow is likely still around the bend before Winter finally flees.
Today, it's sunny and lovely, although cool. I had the boys so well-dressed yesterday, they looked adorable -- B1 in a white button-down with blue stripes, a navy blue Polo sweater vest, blue jeans, and brown loafers; B2 in a kelly green Polo pullover sweater and jeans with white sneakers. They looked adorable. Both boys are such cuties.
I was tickled -- walking them to their babysitter this morning, B1 was talking to me about bioluminescence. I love to hear my 8-year-old using such big words! He's so sharp! I think he'll likely trend toward engineering or architecture or medicine or something like that when he's older. He just seems to have that blend in him. I try to keep an eye on that, what he enjoys. B2 is a born performer -- I can see him being a natural in almost any sport he wants, because he's naturally athletic, but he's also very smart, loves to cook, and loves singing and acting. He's likely to be an entertainer/performer type in some fashion, although we'll see.
Nothing else jumped out at me yesterday, except that spring is in full flower in Chicagoland, which means women wearing their spring fashions -- the flowers are blooming in the city! There really are two schools of dress in Chicago in spring, among the womenfolk: 1) the Flowers, who defiantly go full-on spring in their attire; and 2) the Diehards, who hew to the more restrained hues of winter, as if they are unsure whether spring is actually here (they can be identified by shades of black, grey, and brown in their attire, usually in jeans). I can't honestly fault either group -- they're both right. Spring IS here, and, it being Chicago, it also means a good snow is likely still around the bend before Winter finally flees.
Today, it's sunny and lovely, although cool. I had the boys so well-dressed yesterday, they looked adorable -- B1 in a white button-down with blue stripes, a navy blue Polo sweater vest, blue jeans, and brown loafers; B2 in a kelly green Polo pullover sweater and jeans with white sneakers. They looked adorable. Both boys are such cuties.
I was tickled -- walking them to their babysitter this morning, B1 was talking to me about bioluminescence. I love to hear my 8-year-old using such big words! He's so sharp! I think he'll likely trend toward engineering or architecture or medicine or something like that when he's older. He just seems to have that blend in him. I try to keep an eye on that, what he enjoys. B2 is a born performer -- I can see him being a natural in almost any sport he wants, because he's naturally athletic, but he's also very smart, loves to cook, and loves singing and acting. He's likely to be an entertainer/performer type in some fashion, although we'll see.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Lunchable
I got over 1100 words of the screenplay transcribed over lunch (e.g., 30 minutes). That's good. Gives me a sense of how long it'll take to get it all transcribed. Shouldn't take too terribly long, as I type very quickly.
Finished!
I finished the first draft of the screenplay this morning! Yay! Now, I have to transcribe it (yeah, I wrote it longhand), and put the scenes in order, and read through it and revise/rewrite as necessary. And then let some folks read it, see what they think. Then revise and rewrite again, then sling it out to the competition. We'll see. I think it's got a good concept, and the plot unfolds nicely, and anybody who knows me will laugh when they read it, because they'll most definitely realize the inspiration behind it. I hope it wins at the festival, although I really can't get my hopes up, of course. Here's what I'm competing for...
What I'll likely do on revision is turn up the volume on it (not in terms of gore, but in terms of terror -- I'm not a fan of gory horror as a substitute for good writing). There's the meat and bones of the story, and then I'll bring the horror and terror into as sharp a focus as I can. I have plenty of time to get it done before the deadline. I'll see what I have when I have it all typed up and the scenes in order (the hardest part of screenwriting [for me, anyway] is writing scenes out of sequence).
All winning entries will be reviewed for consideration for production and/or distribution. In addition, we’ll announce to thousands of industry professionals that you were a winner of our festival. This will be done via an advertisement in a widely read industry publication. In some cases there will or will also be a cash prize and/or a product/software bundle.Of course, the challenge I face is that they're judging it on "most frightening" -- and I don't know if the story I wrote is "most frightening" or not. It'll be a well-written, smart, darkly funny horror screenplay. Will it be most frightening? I don't know. But will it be good? Hell, yeah, it will. It will feature a unique monster, and will be witty and carefully plotted. But "most frightening?" I don't know. Fingers crossed? We'll see how my readers react to it. It's hard for me to judge it, since I am behind the curtain, know all the magic tricks.
What I'll likely do on revision is turn up the volume on it (not in terms of gore, but in terms of terror -- I'm not a fan of gory horror as a substitute for good writing). There's the meat and bones of the story, and then I'll bring the horror and terror into as sharp a focus as I can. I have plenty of time to get it done before the deadline. I'll see what I have when I have it all typed up and the scenes in order (the hardest part of screenwriting [for me, anyway] is writing scenes out of sequence).
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Umm...
Is smart-assery genetic? I think it must be. While B1's picking up of sarcasm and a dry sense of humor could be attributed to watching the Master at work, B2 (who is four years old), appears to have inherited my near-innate ability to take the piss.
Case in point: Sometimes the boys will say "Hey, umm, Daddy?" when asking something -- and I'll say "What's with the 'umm?' You know who I am!" Anyway, I said that to B2 again tonight, after giving him some chocolate milk, and he said "Thanks, UMM Daddy!" And then he giggled impishly! He totally did it to get my goat! I laughed.
He did it on purpose! Lil' stinker!
Case in point: Sometimes the boys will say "Hey, umm, Daddy?" when asking something -- and I'll say "What's with the 'umm?' You know who I am!" Anyway, I said that to B2 again tonight, after giving him some chocolate milk, and he said "Thanks, UMM Daddy!" And then he giggled impishly! He totally did it to get my goat! I laughed.
He did it on purpose! Lil' stinker!
Ah! Leah!
This video disappears every now and then, but then reappears. Such a great tune -- totally laden with memories for me. It's impossible not to think of things when I hear this one. The amateur nature of the video is extra-appealing, the whole "face made for radio" kind of thing with early videos. But a classic song, regardless.
Scene: Sequel
Had a bizarre moment this morning -- I was walking to the bus, trying not to get rained on too much, and got to the intersection just as that Euro-Couple did (the bearded guy and his cheek-pierced babe). They were busy hopping puddles. I didn't know they were in the area (they hadn't gotten off at my stop last night). Anyway, that was kind of shocking for me, running into them again like that. The gal's cheek-piercing runs parallel to the plane of her face (e.g., like this -- ). Such an odd place for a piercing, and it's such a tiny piercing, anyway, it's kind of like "What's the point?" I was tempted to ask them their nationality, but didn't want to pester them as we were all navigating the rain this morning.
Bunny
I saw this on Easter Sunday. Looks like the Easter Bunny is making a deal. I honked as I drove past the Bunny, who raised a fist in greeting without turning around. I liked that.
Scene: Busing
I took the bus the whole way home last night, which is sometimes its own reward, depending on the bus ride. I have to take two buses to get to and from work, or a bus and a train on the way home, if I don't want to fuss with the connecting bus on the homeward trek. But yesterday, I decided to do the bus/bus route, as it gave me more time to write -- one of the advantages of being a writer is you don't mind being stuck in traffic, as it just means more writing time!
My connecting bus was pretty packed, and it was full of curious sorts -- there was this foreign couple, I can't be sure of their ethnicity, as their language was familiarly unfamiliar, if that makes sense (like maybe Romanian? Moroccan? Portuguese? Greek? Gypsies? I don't know). The guy was pale-skinned and bearded, and looked blandly familiar in some ineffable way -- he reminded me of some actor, not a famous one, but like a character actor. His girlfriend was exotic -- lightly tanned, square-jawed (slightly cleft chin), honey-blonde hair all braided -- like frickin' cornrows, amber eyes, and a very odd tiny cheek piercing -- like just on the upper part of the cheek, the planes of her face, this little half-inch beaded piercing, like a little line. I've never seen somebody with a piercing like that (and, as far as I could tell, only on the right side of her face). Dark eyebrows, full. She had this leonine countenance, was very striking -- like a European version of a hippie chick (better-dressed -- like colorful scarf, black slacks, white shirt). They kept talking most of the time, in their odd language. Had suitcases.
Next to them was a young guy who looked like the stand-in for Christian Bateman in "American Psycho" -- he had the tousle-haired killer preppy look going something fierce.
Next to me was a gal who saw one of her friends at the front of the crowded bus, and called her on her cell phone. That was funny for me, hearing one-half of the conversation right next to me, and seeing the friend reply at the front of the bus, but not being able to hear what she was saying. Almost performance art, really.
Standing in front of me were the Three Hipster Stooges, which was amusing -- Guy 1 (Moe) had the barely-there beard, big dark shades, dove grey sweater, jeans, and hip shoes; Guy 2 (Larry) had on pinstriped pants and a vest and a button-down shirt and a tan messenger bag (and amber-hued shades); Guy 3 (Curly) had on a gray shiny shirt and charcoal grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans and loafers and a dark messenger bag. It was funny watching them all strike Coolio poses as they fought for balance on the swaying bus.
Finally, there was this beautiful woman with dark brown hair, long, and a long face, lightly tanned, ice blue eyes, dressed in stylish preppy fashions (yellow Wellies, worn jeans, button-down and a rain jacket, worn leather bag) -- she was truly beautiful, looked like she could've been an airline stewardess -- like that kind of good-looking gal, like "trophy wife" kind of thing. One curious feature (hence me mentioning her at all) was that she had a scar on the left side of her face, just past the mouth, on her cheek. Who knows the story of that -- auto accident? Skiing mishap? Who knows? It probably drove her bananas, though, because she really was beautiful, and to have that amazing face scarred had to have been a real shocker -- but it was an old enough scar that she'd obviously gotten long past it. Just a curious little detail, the scarred beauty. Oh, and I think her name was Anne. I saw because she was two-fisting her telecommunication -- like an iPhone in one hand and a QWERTY cell in the other hand, and she kept alternating between them, texting on both. I saw her name on one as she was switching between communicators.
I always notice when people walk around with their ID badges hanging from their belts, too. I'd never do that, wouldn't want people knowing my name. It's like "Hey, Kevin. Howdy, Jason. Hiya, Jennifer! What's happening, Stanley?" (and their last names, too, and lord knows what else is on those photo IDs) People don't think about that, I guess. For them, it's just an ID badge. Maybe I'm just very paranoid (well, yeah), but I'd keep my ID badge out of sight until I needed it. Seeing those, I often wonder what they're doing that requires that ID badge (to his credit, Hipster Moe had his in his pocket, although the lanyard for it said TRIBUNE so the poor sod apparently works at the Trib, at least he's smart enough to keep his ID concealed). Also, as I look for new work, I wonder "Christ, am I gonna have to be sporting an ID badge on a chain, too?"
My connecting bus was pretty packed, and it was full of curious sorts -- there was this foreign couple, I can't be sure of their ethnicity, as their language was familiarly unfamiliar, if that makes sense (like maybe Romanian? Moroccan? Portuguese? Greek? Gypsies? I don't know). The guy was pale-skinned and bearded, and looked blandly familiar in some ineffable way -- he reminded me of some actor, not a famous one, but like a character actor. His girlfriend was exotic -- lightly tanned, square-jawed (slightly cleft chin), honey-blonde hair all braided -- like frickin' cornrows, amber eyes, and a very odd tiny cheek piercing -- like just on the upper part of the cheek, the planes of her face, this little half-inch beaded piercing, like a little line. I've never seen somebody with a piercing like that (and, as far as I could tell, only on the right side of her face). Dark eyebrows, full. She had this leonine countenance, was very striking -- like a European version of a hippie chick (better-dressed -- like colorful scarf, black slacks, white shirt). They kept talking most of the time, in their odd language. Had suitcases.
Next to them was a young guy who looked like the stand-in for Christian Bateman in "American Psycho" -- he had the tousle-haired killer preppy look going something fierce.
Next to me was a gal who saw one of her friends at the front of the crowded bus, and called her on her cell phone. That was funny for me, hearing one-half of the conversation right next to me, and seeing the friend reply at the front of the bus, but not being able to hear what she was saying. Almost performance art, really.
Standing in front of me were the Three Hipster Stooges, which was amusing -- Guy 1 (Moe) had the barely-there beard, big dark shades, dove grey sweater, jeans, and hip shoes; Guy 2 (Larry) had on pinstriped pants and a vest and a button-down shirt and a tan messenger bag (and amber-hued shades); Guy 3 (Curly) had on a gray shiny shirt and charcoal grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans and loafers and a dark messenger bag. It was funny watching them all strike Coolio poses as they fought for balance on the swaying bus.
Finally, there was this beautiful woman with dark brown hair, long, and a long face, lightly tanned, ice blue eyes, dressed in stylish preppy fashions (yellow Wellies, worn jeans, button-down and a rain jacket, worn leather bag) -- she was truly beautiful, looked like she could've been an airline stewardess -- like that kind of good-looking gal, like "trophy wife" kind of thing. One curious feature (hence me mentioning her at all) was that she had a scar on the left side of her face, just past the mouth, on her cheek. Who knows the story of that -- auto accident? Skiing mishap? Who knows? It probably drove her bananas, though, because she really was beautiful, and to have that amazing face scarred had to have been a real shocker -- but it was an old enough scar that she'd obviously gotten long past it. Just a curious little detail, the scarred beauty. Oh, and I think her name was Anne. I saw because she was two-fisting her telecommunication -- like an iPhone in one hand and a QWERTY cell in the other hand, and she kept alternating between them, texting on both. I saw her name on one as she was switching between communicators.
I always notice when people walk around with their ID badges hanging from their belts, too. I'd never do that, wouldn't want people knowing my name. It's like "Hey, Kevin. Howdy, Jason. Hiya, Jennifer! What's happening, Stanley?" (and their last names, too, and lord knows what else is on those photo IDs) People don't think about that, I guess. For them, it's just an ID badge. Maybe I'm just very paranoid (well, yeah), but I'd keep my ID badge out of sight until I needed it. Seeing those, I often wonder what they're doing that requires that ID badge (to his credit, Hipster Moe had his in his pocket, although the lanyard for it said TRIBUNE so the poor sod apparently works at the Trib, at least he's smart enough to keep his ID concealed). Also, as I look for new work, I wonder "Christ, am I gonna have to be sporting an ID badge on a chain, too?"
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
A Pict Picking Pix
So, I went through some of my pictures, narrowed my selection to about 60 pictures, then culled down to 34, then 29, then 10, then six, and now have my top four selected for the competition. I think they're all strong shots, have a good chance of advancing (?) -- although we'll see. With my luck, I don't know. Truly cannot get my hopes up, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Gonna get a haircut sometime this week -- my springtime ritual, shedding my wintertime locks. My hair's not long, as I've said; it's just shaggy. Getting some white hairs creeping into my generally auburn sideburns! Hey! That's alright. It works. It's all good.
10 days until I turn 40. Ooooh! Truly, I'm about twice as happy at 40 as I was at 38, or 36, or even 27 -- not precisely where I need to be, but I'd like to think I'm on the on-ramp to Happy.
I have a lot to say about that -- life, love, love of life, a life of love, all of that -- but I'm at work ("Where Fun Comes to Die"), so I'll get to that later. I'm thinking a bit about the "Bohemian values" articulated in "Moulin Rouge"(of all places) -- Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love, and what that means, exactly. Is all love that you feel true love? Are there shades of it? Degrees? It seems contrary to the idea of True Love for it to be a matter of degree -- like you're filling a tub with water, a little hot, a little cold, getting the temperature just right. That doesn't seem at all romantic. I don't think True Love can be controlled -- you either know True Love, or you don't. I have known people who are honestly "love-avoidant" -- like it's an alien idea to them. Or they love/hate themselves too much to actually open their hearts to True Love. Too much of either can blind you to it. But enough yammering for now.
Gonna get a haircut sometime this week -- my springtime ritual, shedding my wintertime locks. My hair's not long, as I've said; it's just shaggy. Getting some white hairs creeping into my generally auburn sideburns! Hey! That's alright. It works. It's all good.
10 days until I turn 40. Ooooh! Truly, I'm about twice as happy at 40 as I was at 38, or 36, or even 27 -- not precisely where I need to be, but I'd like to think I'm on the on-ramp to Happy.
I have a lot to say about that -- life, love, love of life, a life of love, all of that -- but I'm at work ("Where Fun Comes to Die"), so I'll get to that later. I'm thinking a bit about the "Bohemian values" articulated in "Moulin Rouge"(of all places) -- Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love, and what that means, exactly. Is all love that you feel true love? Are there shades of it? Degrees? It seems contrary to the idea of True Love for it to be a matter of degree -- like you're filling a tub with water, a little hot, a little cold, getting the temperature just right. That doesn't seem at all romantic. I don't think True Love can be controlled -- you either know True Love, or you don't. I have known people who are honestly "love-avoidant" -- like it's an alien idea to them. Or they love/hate themselves too much to actually open their hearts to True Love. Too much of either can blind you to it. But enough yammering for now.
Stormbringer
We've been getting a lot of storms lately. Very classic Spring weather (in general), although for Chicago, I can't remember, to be honest. Spring is such a brief season in Chicago, land of short Summer, fleeting Fall, and lengthy Winter.
I kept hammering away on the screenplay this morning -- I'm also still working on the six-week book, mind you; I'm just multi-tasking. Since the deadline for the screenplay is in June, I'm trying to get a first draft (and then a revised draft) for it done in advance of that deadline so I can get it to readers and get their input with enough time for additional revisions, as needed.
I'm going to send some pix to a photography competition, too; I have tons of pix shot, and am pretty good with a camera. Odds are nothing will come of it, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Eating spaghetti and (turkey) meatballs for lunch. I made it over the weekend. Did I mention that I love cooking? Hahah!
I kept hammering away on the screenplay this morning -- I'm also still working on the six-week book, mind you; I'm just multi-tasking. Since the deadline for the screenplay is in June, I'm trying to get a first draft (and then a revised draft) for it done in advance of that deadline so I can get it to readers and get their input with enough time for additional revisions, as needed.
I'm going to send some pix to a photography competition, too; I have tons of pix shot, and am pretty good with a camera. Odds are nothing will come of it, but I'm going to try, anyway.
Eating spaghetti and (turkey) meatballs for lunch. I made it over the weekend. Did I mention that I love cooking? Hahah!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Daffodildo
I overheard a coworker (I'll christen her "Serpentina") talking to another (in the kitchenette) about how lovely the smell of a clutch of daffodils were -- somebody had brought'em in, put them in a vase. Well and good, but you know what? Daffodils don't smell nice. They have a sharp, acrid scent. They're pretty to look at, but clearly, Serpentina was smelling them with her eyes. It was a weird thing to say, because they're funkifying the kitchenette as I type this.
*snicker* -- "daffodildo" -- I'm pleased with that new word. I'm going to refer to it as somebody who wrongly thinks stinky flowers smell nice just because they're nice to look at. THAT is a daffodildo. You read it here first.
*snicker* -- "daffodildo" -- I'm pleased with that new word. I'm going to refer to it as somebody who wrongly thinks stinky flowers smell nice just because they're nice to look at. THAT is a daffodildo. You read it here first.
Cackle
Having drunk my share of absinthe over the years, I can honestly say that it really does make me cackle like they do in this little clip...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqa62iiUwUI
I don't know of any other spirit that makes me cackle/carry on quite like absinthe, although no visual hallucinations, alas. But the cackling, most definitely. The very first time I tried it, I blogged about it (sorry, a long-extinct blog), and I was sitting there at the keyboard, cackling, trying to type. Oh, what a sight!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lqa62iiUwUI
I don't know of any other spirit that makes me cackle/carry on quite like absinthe, although no visual hallucinations, alas. But the cackling, most definitely. The very first time I tried it, I blogged about it (sorry, a long-extinct blog), and I was sitting there at the keyboard, cackling, trying to type. Oh, what a sight!
Hipster extinction...
I've thought about this for some time. When one would see "hipsters" in Indianapolis and Cincinnati and Youngstown and Pittsburgh, it was clear that the meme was spread far too widely to really have any weight, anymore. It's like when you see some kid completely decked out in Punk regalia, the whole works -- in 2010, right? You're like "Wow, 1977 called, they want their affectation back."
http://www.salon.com/books/nonfiction/index.html?story=/books/feature/2010/04/01/look_at_this_hipster_book
http://www.salon.com/books/nonfiction/index.html?story=/books/feature/2010/04/01/look_at_this_hipster_book
So what is a hipster, exactly?
It's a broad term, but I consider it to be rich white trash -- or people trying to stretch out adolescence as far as it'll go. It has to do with a person's attitude, and lifestyle choice, but it's also about fashion. They wear skinny jeans and ironic facial hair, and handlebar mustaches and V-neck shirts and dumb hats. They wear big glasses -- that's a key thing usually -- asymmetrical haircuts, wool caps in the summer, Yasser Arafat scarves [kaffiyehs], American spirit cigarettes, and drink Pabst Blue Ribbon or cheap beer. It's all about people trying so hard to look like they're not trying hard.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Dishing
A couple of food places -- well, treat-making places, anyway -- you should support -- I'm shamelessly plugging them because they're very good and are in a very economically-depressed area (Youngstown, Ohio) and any support they get is a good thing...
Handel's Ice Cream.
Their Chocolate Pecan ice cream is great stuff! Truly tops! They've got a ton of flavors. You won't be disappointed. Get a quart (or three); you'll need it!
Butter Maid Bakery.
They make great sweets! Uniquely delicious chocolate chip cookies (seriously, and awesome kolachi, too, and elephant ears, and bear claws, and these walnut cookies they used to make but likely only make on special order, now). Their chocolate chip cookies, however, are a breed apart -- I've never had ones like theirs.
Handel's Ice Cream.
Their Chocolate Pecan ice cream is great stuff! Truly tops! They've got a ton of flavors. You won't be disappointed. Get a quart (or three); you'll need it!
Butter Maid Bakery.
They make great sweets! Uniquely delicious chocolate chip cookies (seriously, and awesome kolachi, too, and elephant ears, and bear claws, and these walnut cookies they used to make but likely only make on special order, now). Their chocolate chip cookies, however, are a breed apart -- I've never had ones like theirs.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Sleepy
I'm very tired. I've been writing my ass off the past few days, working on a screenplay. I'm about 60% done with it. Brain...tired....
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